t topic again!" But he only
laughed.

"It doesn't hurt _me_," he said. "That reminds me that I wanted to
remind _you_ of something you said you would tell me. You know--that
evening the kitten went to the music-party--something you would tell
me some time."

"I know; I'll tell you when they've got to their music, if there isn't
too much row. Don't let's talk while this new young man's playing; it
seems unkind. It won't matter when they're all at it together." But in
spite of good resolutions silence was not properly observed, and the
perfunctory pause came awkwardly on the top of a lapse. Fenwick then
said, as one who avails himself of an opportunity:

"No need to wait for the music; they can't hear a word we say in there.
We can't hear a word _they_ say."

"Because they're making such a racket." Mrs. Nightingale paused with
a listening eye, trying to disprove their inaudibility. The examination
confirmed Fenwick. "I like it," she continued--"a lot of young voices.
It's much better when you don't make out what they say. When you can't
hear a word, you fancy some sense in it." And then went on listening,
and Fenwick waited, too. He couldn't well fidget her to keep her
promise; she would do it of herself in time. It might be she preferred
talking under cover of the music. She certainly remained silent till
it came; then she spoke.

"What was it made me say that to you about something I would tell you?
Oh, I know. You said, perhaps if you knew your past, you would not
court catechism about it. And I said that, knowing mine, _I_ should
not either. Wasn't that it?" She fixed her eyes on him as though to
hold him to the truth. Perhaps she wanted his verbal recognition of
the possibility that she, too, like others, might have left things in
the past she would like to forget on their merits--cast-off garments
on the road of life. It may have been painful to her to feel his faith
in herself an obstacle to what she wished at least to hint to him,
even if she could not tell him outright. She did not want too much
divine worship at her shrine--a ready recognition of her position of
mortal frailty would be so much more sympathetic, really. A feeling
perhaps traceably akin to what many of us have felt, that if our
father the devil--"auld Nickie Ben"--would only tak' a thought and
mend, as he aiblins might, he would be the very king of father
confessors. If details had to be gone into, we should be sure of _his_
sympathy.

"Y