t you thought
me unmaidenly. Anything would be better than that; but I can throw
all such considerations to the wind when true--true--friendship is
concerned. Don't you think that one ought, Mr. Gibson?"

If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he would
have done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain.
It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, and
abominable, as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him the
necessity of assisting to carry such an abortion through the world.
"One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship," said Mr. Gibson,
"except self-respect."

He meant nothing personal. Something special, in the way of an
opinion, was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven to
say something special. But she was in tears in a moment. "Oh, Mr.
Gibson," she exclaimed; "oh, Mr. Gibson!"

"What is the matter, Miss French?"

"Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean?"

"Certainly not, Miss French."

"Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me.
Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me--Bella." That
was quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr. Gibson,--before the
monster had been attached. "Will you not call me Bella now?"

He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it?
On a sudden he became very crafty. Had it not been for the sharpness
of his mother wit, he would certainly have been landed at that
moment. "As you truly observed just now," he said, "the tongues
of people are so malignant. There are little birds that hear
everything."

"I don't care what the little birds hear," said Miss French, through
her tears. "I am a very unhappy girl;--I know that; and I don't care
what anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know what
I feel." At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. The
fish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could
not land him. Her hopes before this had been very low,--hopes that
had once been high; but they had been depressed gradually; and, in
the slow, dull routine of her daily life, she had learned to bear
disappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without
consciousness of acute pain. The task of her life had been weary,
and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant;
but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into a
lethargy of lessening expectation, from which joy,