“You are perfectly infatuated, Miss Monfort; I declare, I shall begin to believe—­”

“No, you shall not begin to believe any such, thing,” I interrupted her, smiling; “you are surely too sensible and just a woman to begin to believe fallacies thus late in the day.”

“Have it your own way,” she said, sharply; “you always get the better of me at last.”

“Not always,” I pursued, “or I should not be here, you know.  It rests with you to keep or let me go—­”

“To ruin my child’s husband!  There, now! you have my life-secret,” she said, with a desperate gesture; “use it as you will.”

I understood more than ever the hopelessness of my case from the moment of that impulsive revelation, to which I made no answer.

“What is more,” she said, huskily, “I, too, am watched; I never knew this until two days ago:  a negro man, an attendant of the house, an old servant of your guardian’s, I believe, guards the doors below, and refuses to let me pass to and fro.  Dinah, even, is employed to dog my steps.  This is not exactly what I bargained for; yet, in spite of all, on her account I shall be faithful to the end.”  And for a time she busied herself in that careful dusting of the ornaments of the chamber, which seemed mechanical, so habitual was it to her sense of order and tidiness.

Her hand was on the gold-emblazoned Bible, I remember, and her party-colored bunch of plumes lifted above it, as if for immediate action, when her arm fell heavily to her side, and she heaved a bitter sigh, so deep, it sounded like a long-suppressed sob, rather, to my ear.

“If I could only think you did not hate me, Miss Miriam,” she said, “I believe I could be better satisfied to lead the life I do.”

“Hate you!  Why should I hate you, Mrs. Clayton?  You are only a tool in the hands of my persecutor, I know, from your own confession, and I understand your motive better in the last few moments than I did before (inadequate as it seems to my sense of justice), for aiding this oppressor.  You have been very kind to me in some respects; an inferior person could have tortured in a thousand ways, where you have shown yourself considerate, delicate even, and for all this I thank you more than I can express.  I should be very ungrateful, indeed, were I to hate you.  The word is strong.”

“Yet you prefer even that hump-backed child to me or my society,” she said, peevishly.

“The comparison cannot be instituted with any propriety,” I responded, gravely, turning away and dismissing the boy to his blocks and books, as I did so, which made for him, I knew, a fairy kingdom of delight, through the aid of his splendid imagination.

A commonplace infant will tire of the choicest toys; they are to such minds but effigies and delusion, which last, the delight of imaginative infancy, to the cut and dried, dull, childish understanding is impossible.