“Where in the world is John going?” said Lillie, running to the door, and calling after him in imperative tones.

“John, John, come back.  I haven’t done with you yet;” but John never turned his head.

“How very odd! what in the world is the matter with him?” she said to herself.

John was gone all the afternoon.  He took a long, long walk, all by himself, and thought the matter over.  He remembered that fresh, childlike, almost infantine face, that looked up into his with such a bewitching air of frankness and candor, as she professed to be telling all about herself and her history; and now which or what of it was true?  It seemed as if he loathed her; and yet he couldn’t help loving her, while he despised himself for doing it.

When he came home to supper, he was silent and morose.  Lillie came running to meet him; but he threw her off, saying he was tired.  She was frightened; she had never seen him look like that.

“John, what is the matter with you?” said Grace at the tea-table.  “You are upsetting every thing, and don’t drink your tea.”

“Nothing—­only—­I have some troublesome business to settle,” he said, getting up to go out again.  “You needn’t wait for me; I shall be out late.”

“What can be the matter?”

Lillie, indeed, had not the remotest idea.  Yet she remembered his jumping up suddenly, and throwing down the Bible; and mechanically she went to it, and opened it.  She turned it over; and the record met her eye.

“Provoking!” she said.  “Stupid old creature! must needs go and put that out in full.”  Lillie took a paper-folder, and cut the leaf out quite neatly; then folded and burned it.

She knew now what was the matter.  John was angry at her; but she couldn’t help wondering that he should be so angry.  If he had laughed at her, teased her, taxed her with the trick, she would have understood what to do.  But this terrible gloom, this awful commotion of the elements, frightened her.

She went to her room, saying that she had a headache, and would go to bed.  But she did not.  She took her French novel, and read till she heard him coming; and then she threw down her book, and began to cry.  He came into the room, and saw her leaning like a little white snow-wreath over the table, sobbing as if her heart would break.  To do her justice, Lillie’s sobs were not affected.  She was lonesome and thoroughly frightened; and, when she heard him coming, her nerves gave out.  John’s heart yearned towards her.  His short-lived anger had burned out; and he was perfectly longing for a reconciliation.  He felt as if he must have her to love, no matter what she was.  He came up to her, and stroked her hair.  “O Lillie!” he said, “why couldn’t you have told me the truth?  What made you deceive me?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like me if I did,” said Lillie, in her sobs.

“O Lillie!  I should have liked you, no matter how old you were,—­only you should have told me the truth.”