inwright threw back his head and laughed out loud, as he had not
laughed for years.

"I am not sure but that it is a compliment," he said at last; "no one
has ever taken me for anything particular before in all my life." Then,
when he was sober, "Miss Dooris," he said, "I am a man of leisure,
residing in New York; and I am sorry to say that I am an idle vagabond,
with no occupation even so useful as that of a revenue detective."

In spite of himself, however, a touch of contempt filtered into his
voice. Then it came to him how the club-men would enjoy the story, and
again he laughed uproariously. When he came to himself, Honor was
crying.

III.

Yes, Honor was crying. The dire mistake, the contempt, and, worse than
all, the laughter, had struck the proud little Southern girl to the
heart.

"My dear child," said Wainwright, all the gentleman in him aroused at
once, "why should you care for so small and natural a mistake? It is all
clear to me now. I gave no account of myself coming over on the stage; I
remember, too, that I spoke of the moonlight whisky-makers myself, and
that I made no effort to find out what Mr. Head was alluding to when he
talked on in his mysterious way. It is my usual unpardonable laziness
which has brought you to this error. Pray forgive it."

Honor cried on, unable to stop, but his voice and words had soothed her;
he stood beside her, hat in hand, and after a few moments she summoned
self-control enough to dry her eyes and put down her handkerchief. But
her eyelashes were still wet, her breath came tremulously, and there was
a crimson spot on each cheek. She looked, at that moment, not more than
fifteen years old, and Wainwright sat down, this time nearer to her,
determined to make her feel easier. He banished the subject of her
mistake at once, and began talking to her about herself. He asked many
questions, and she answered them humbly, as a Lenten penitent might
answer a father confessor. She seemed to feel as though she owed him
everything he chose to take. She let him enter and walk through her life
and mind, through all her hopes and plans; one or two closed doors he
noted, but did not try to open, neither did he let her see that he had
discovered them. He learned how poor they were; he learned her love for
her uncle, her Switzer's attachment to the mountain-peaks about her; he
learned what her daily life was; and he came near enough to her
religious faith, that faith which had firs