ened. I did what I never thought I should
be capable of doing, and did it easily, too, without, I am sure, a
change of color or any perturbation. I think I could do it, because
faithfulness had become so a matter of course with the man that I was
not ashamed should he have any suspicion of me also. He and Lyman used
to be warm friends. I asked if he knew anything about him. He met my
question as if I had asked what o'clock it was, just the way I knew he
would meet it. He knows no more than I do. But he said something
which has comforted me, although comfort at this stage of affairs is a
dangerous indulgence. He said, very much as if he had been speaking of
the weather, "He worshipped you, Lily, and wherever he is, in this world
or the next, he worships you now." Then he added: "You know how I felt
about you. Lily. If I had not found out about him, that he had come
first, I know how it would have been with me, so I know how it is with
him. We had the same views about matters of that kind. After I did find
out, why, of course, I felt different--although always, as long as I
live, I shall be a dear friend to you. Lily. But a man is unfaithful to
himself who is faithful to a woman whom another man loves and whom she
loves."

"Yes, that is true," I agreed, and said something about the hours for
the mails in Eastridge. Lyman Wilde dropped out of Ned's life as he
dropped out of mine, it seems. I shall simply have to lean back upon
the minor joys of life for mental and physical support, as I did before.
Nothing is different, but I am glad that I have seen Ned Temple again,
and realize what a good man he is.

Well, it seems that even minor pleasures have dangers, and that I do not
always read characters rightly. The very evening after my little stroll
and renewal of friendship with Ned Temple I was sitting in my room,
reading a new book for which the author should have capital punishment,
when I heard excited voices, or rather an excited voice, below. I did
not pay much attention at first. I supposed the excited voice must
belong to either Maria or Alice, for no others of my brother's family
ever seem in the least excited, not to the extent of raising their
voices to a hysterical pitch. But after a few minutes Cyrus came to
the foot of the stairs and called. He called Aunt Elizabeth, and Aunt
Elizabeth, in her same pink frock, went down. Cyrus met me at the
foot of the stairs, and he looked fairly wild. "What on earth, Aunt