Cornelia's heart, which stood still at the threat she made, began to
pound in her breast. She panted so that she could hardly speak.

"Will you call me by my first name?" she demanded.

"No. You shall be Miss Saunders to me till you say when."

"And will you ever speak to me, or look at me, as if we were ever
anything but the most perfect strangers?"

"It'll be a good deal of a discount from what I told Mrs. Montgomery,
but I guess I shall have to promise."

"And you will go in the morning?"

"Sure."

"How soon?"

"Well, I don't like a _very_ early breakfast, but I guess I can get out
of the house by about nine, or half-past eight, maybe."

"Then you may stay." Cornelia turned and marched out of the parlor with
a state that failed her more and more, the higher she mounted toward
her room. If it had been a flight further she would have had to crawl
on her hands and knees.

At first she thought she would not go down to dinner, but after a while
she found herself very hungry, and she decided she must go for
appearance sake at any rate. At the bottom of her heart, too, she was
curious to see whether that little wretch would keep his word.

He was the life of the table. His jokes made everybody laugh; it could
be seen that he was a prime favorite with the landlady. After the
coffee came he played a great many tricks with knives and forks and
spoons, and coins. He dressed one of his hands, all but two fingers,
with a napkin which he made like the skirts of a ballet-dancer, and
then made his fingers dance a hornpipe. He tried a skirt-dance with
them later, but it was comparatively a failure, for want of practice,
he said.

Toward Cornelia he behaved with the most scrupulous deference, even
with delicacy, as if they had indeed met in former days, but as if she
were a person of such dignity and consequence that their acquaintance
could only have been of the most formal character. He did it so well,
and seemed to take such a pleasure in doing it that she blushed for
him. Some of the things he said to the others were so droll that she
had to laugh at them. But he did not presume upon her tolerance.

XXIII.

The false courage that supported her in Dickerson's presence left
Cornelia when she went back to her room, and she did not sleep that
night, or she thought she did not. She came down early for a cup of
coffee, and the landlady told her that Mr. Dickerson had just gone; he
wished Mrs. Montgomery to give