"How did you come to hear her?"

"Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?"

Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked
shocked at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of
listening. The cook's sense of honor was satisfied; she readily
explained herself: "I was passing the door, miss, on my way
upstairs."

Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible
that an afflicted member of my father's congregation might have
called on him to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted
ladies, without looking worried and anxious after they leave him.
Still suspecting something out of the ordinary course of events,
I waited hopefully for our next meeting at supper-time. Nothing
came of it. My father left me by myself again, when the meal was
over. He is always courteous to his daughters; and he made an
apology: "Excuse me, Helena, I want to think."

. . . . . . .

I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in
the long wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on
the next day.

At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs
of anxiety showed themselves in my father's face. Instead of
retiring to his study when we rose from the table, he proposed
taking a turn in the garden: "You are looking pale, Helena, and