you should have fallen back to the miserable
superstitions against which your father has fought so bravely."

"Come, Mr. Harmston," said the professor; "we are late, I fancy."

And before Erica could make any reply Mrs. Craigie and the two visitors
had adjourned to the committee room, leaving her alone with Tom.

Now, for two or three days Erica had been enduring Tom's coldness and
Mrs. Craigie's unceasing remonstrances; all the afternoon she had been
having a long and painful discussion with her friend, Mrs. MacNaughton;
this evening she had seen plainly enough what her position would be
for the future among all her old acquaintances, and an aching sense of
isolation filled her heart. She was just going to run upstairs and yield
to her longing for darkness and quiet, when Tom called her back. She
could not refuse to hear, for the coldness of her old playmate had made
her very sad, but she turned back rather reluctantly, for her eyes were
brimming with tears.

"Don't go," said Tom, quite in his natural voice. "Have you any coffee
for me, or did the old fogies finish it?"

Erica went back to the table and poured him out a cup of coffee, but her
hand trembled, and, before she could prevent it, down splashed a great
tear into the saucer.

"Come!" said Tom, cheerfully. "Don't go and spoil my coffee with salt
water! All very well for David, in a penitential psalm, to drink tears,
but in the nineteenth century, you know--"

Erica began to laugh at this, a fatal proceeding, for afterward came a
great sob, and the tears came down in good earnest. Philosophical Tom
always professed great contempt for tears, and he knew that Erica must
be very much moved indeed to cry in his presence, or, indeed, to cry
at all; for, as he expressed it: "It was not in her line." But somehow,
when for the first time he saw her cry, he did not feel contemptuous;
instead, he began to call himself a "hard-hearted brute," and a
narrow-minded fool, and to feel miserable and out of conceit with
himself.

"I say, Erica, don't cry," he pleaded. "Don't, I say, I can't bear to
see you. I've been a cold-blooded wretch I'm awfully sorry!"

"It's very cowardly of me," sobbed Erica. "But--but--" with a rush of
tears, "you don't know how I love you all it's like being killed by
inches."

"You're not cowardly," said Tom, warmly. "You've been brave and plucky;
I only wish it were in a better cause. Look here, Erica, only stop
crying, and promise me that