im," said she; "that you couldn't see him, and he kept on in
that window-glass way of looking, and his head as high as ever, and he
took his hat and 'I'm very sorry,' he says, 'that Miss Hungerford is
indisposed, and I hope I shall have an opportunity of seeing her this
evening.'

"He said he came to-day, and was going away to-morrow morning, and he had
something of importance to communicate, and I knew he expected I'd go up
and see you again about it, but I didn't. So he said he'd call again this
evening or to-morrow morning, just which 'd be most agreeable, and
expected I'd budge then, sure, but I didn't show any signs of it; and I
told him rightly, I guessed one time would be about as agreeable as
another; and I suppose he thought he wouldn't show mad before such common
bred folks. He smiled that window-glass looking smile of his, and says;
'Ah, thank you; now I won't detain you any longer, Mrs. Keeler,' and out
he went.

"I suppose he's come down to smooth everything over, and have it hushed
up with Beck and her folks. Well, money'll do a good deal for a man, but
it wouldn't stand him much if he got into George Olver's hands. However,
teacher," concluded Madeline, in a sprightly tone; "give the Devil his
due. It's better'n as if he'd run off and never showed his head again;
and I don't suppose he'll get much satisfaction out of you, if you do see
him, teacher. It's better to trust honest folks than rogues, and nobody
knows that better than the rogues themselves."

I knew that this last clause was not designed as a personal thrust by
Madeline, yet I could not help musing a little over it, smilingly, after
she had gone. The fiction, of which I was living a part, in Wallencamp,
was taking on, it seemed to me, a tinge even of the tragic--perplexities
were deepening. I was becoming, more than ever, the suffering though
exalted heroine of a romance.

I rose, and dressed myself before the glass, I remember, with particular
care. I did not know why I should dread or avoid seeing the fisherman in
the evening, since the part I had to sustain in the interview was so
distinctly calm, dispassionate, and spiritually remote. At the same
time, I wished that my cheeks had not grown so pale and my eyes so
dark-rimmed and hollow. They bespoke the interesting part I had to play
in the world's tragedy, but were not, otherwise, so becoming as I could
have wished.

Earlier, the fisherman had sent me books from Providence. I would rat