t luck to meet you here. I am
having such a _lovely_ day. Mrs. Constans has taken me out with her, and
I am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in the evening."

She has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though sure
of a sympathetic listener.

He is too good a listener. He is listening so hard, he is looking so
intensely, that he forgets to speak, and Perpetua's sudden gaiety
forsakes her. Is he angry? Does he think----?

"It's _only_ a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "Do you
think that one should not go to a concert when----"

"Yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full
stop. He has never seen her dressed like this before. She is all in
black to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! She looks quite the
little heiress, like a little queen indeed--radiant, lovely.

"_Well_--when one is in mourning," says she somewhat impatiently, the
color once again dyeing her cheek. Quick tears have sprung to her eyes.
They seem to hurt the professor.

"One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is still
unfortunate.

"You evade the question," says she frowning. "But a concert _isn't_ like
a ball, is it?"

"I don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little knowledge
of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises solely from
inability to give her an honest reply.

"You hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. But," defiantly, "I
don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball."

"No--I suppose not!"

"I can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her
mortification. "And it is very _hard_ of you. Just because _you_ don't
care to go anywhere, you think _I_ oughtn't to care either. That is what
is so selfish about people who are old. You," wilfully, "are just as bad
as Aunt Jane."

The professor looks at her. His face is perplexed--distressed--and
something more, but she cannot read that.

"Well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "But nearly.
And if you don't take care you will grow like her. I hate people who
lecture me, and besides, I don't see why a guardian should control one's
whole life, and thought, and action. A guardian," resentfully, "isn't
one's conscience!"

"No. No. Thank Heaven!" says the professor, shocked. Perpetua stares at
him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh.

"You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience," says
she, a little angry