n her hand. They were about to
dine. Why should not I dine there too? There was but one little
objection,--I had an engagement to dinner. But the strange impulse which
overpowered me, and seemed leading me on step by step, spite of myself,
quickly overruled all the dictates of propriety toward my intended
hosts. Could I not send a prettily devised apology? I glided past the
couple, with my head averted, seeking a table, and I was unobserved by
my old acquaintance. I was too agitated to eat, but I made a semblance,
and little heeded the air of surprise and almost disgust on the
bewildered face of the waiter as he bore away the barely touched dishes.
I was in a very fever of impatience and doubt what next to do. They
still sat on, in evident enjoyment of their meal and their constant
draughts of sparkling wine. My impatience was becoming almost unbearable
when the man at last rose. The woman seemed to have uttered some
expostulation, for he turned at the door and said somewhat harshly
aloud, "Nonsense; only one game and I shall be back. The waiter will
give you a paper--a magazine--something to while away the time." And he
left the room for the billiard-table, as I surmised.

Now was my opportunity. After a little hesitation, I rose, and planted
myself abruptly on the vacant seat before the woman.

"Mary," I said.

She started, with a little exclamation of alarm, and dropped the paper
she had held. She knew me at once.

"Master John!" she exclaimed, using the familiar term still given me
when I was long past boyhood; and then, after a lengthened gaze, she
turned away her head. I was embarrassed at first how to address her.

"Mary," I said at last, "I am grieved to see you thus."

"Why should you be grieved for me?" she retorted, looking at me sharply,
and speaking in a tone of impatient anger. "I am happy as I am."

"I don't believe you," I replied.

She again turned away her head.

"Mary," I pursued, "can you doubt, that, spite of all, I have still a
strong interest in the companion of my youth?"

She looked at me almost mournfully, but did not speak. At that moment I
probably grew pale; for suddenly that chilly fit seized me again, and
my forehead became clammy. That voice sounded again in my ear: "Speak
of him!" were the words it uttered. Mary gazed on me with surprise, and
yet I was assured that _she_ had not heard that voice, so plain to me.
She evidently mistook the nature of my visible emotion.

"O Mas