fore she fairly realized what had happened.

I then told Bessie what our conversation had been, and left her to judge
for herself. I had not the heart to scold her for her part in the French
leave-taking, though it made me feel miserable to think how few
episodes of such a sort might bring about endless misunderstandings and
heart-aches.

Of course more or less talk was caused by the mysterious manner of our
several departures from Miss Van's party; and, thanks to Fred Marston
and his wife and similar rattle-pates, it became generally known that
there was a skeleton in the Pinkerton closet.

Miss Van soon heard how it came about, and nothing could have afforded a
more complete proof of her refinement of character than the delicacy and
tact with which she ignored the whole affair.

CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER CHARLIE IN THE FIELD.

The winter, with its petty trials and contentions, had gone by; spring,
with its bloom and fragrance, was far advanced; and already another
summer, with its possible pleasures and recreations, was close upon us.
Before it had fairly set in, however, an event of extraordinary
importance was to occur in our little household. There had been
premonitions of it for some time, which had a tendency to soften and
soothe all asperities, and cause a rather sober and subdued air to
pervade the little cottage, and now there were active preparations going
on. Of course, the widow was gradually assuming the management of the
whole affair, and it was a matter in which I could hardly venture to
dispute her right. Her experience and knowledge were certainly superior
to mine, and it was an affair in which these qualities were very
important. In fact, I seemed to be counted out altogether in the
preparations, as if it was something in the nature of a surprise party
in my honor. Mrs. Pinkerton had an air of mysterious and exclusive
knowledge concerning the grand event. Miss Van, who had come to have
confidential relations with Bessie, of the most intimate kind,
notwithstanding the mother's objections, knew all about it, but had a
queer way of appearing unconscious of anything unusual. There seemed to
be a general consent to a shallow pretence that I was in utter and
hopeless ignorance. It annoyed me a little, as I flattered myself that I
knew quite as much about what was coming as any of them, and I thought
it silly to make believe I didn't, and to ignore my interest in the
affair. Bessie had no secrets