“Nonsense!” said Bessie with a slight quiver of her pretty, pouting mouth.  “Do be rational, Charlie!”

I believe I was rational in my own fashion for a little while, but when I ventured to say in a very unnecessary whisper, “Then you will go abroad with me?” Bessie flushed to her temples and rose from the sofa.  She had a way, when she was very much in earnest, or very much stirred with some passionate thought, of pacing the parlor with her hands clasped tightly before her, and her arms tense and straining at the clasping hands.  With her head bent slightly forward, and her brown hair hanging in one long tress over her shoulder, she went swiftly up and down, while I lay back on the sofa and watched her.  She would speak it out presently, the thought that was hurting her.  So I felt secure and waited, following every movement with a lover’s eye.  But I ought not to have waited.  I should have drawn her to me and shared that rapid, nervous walk—­should have compelled her with sweet force to render an account of that emotion.  But I was so secure, so entirely one with her in thought, that I could conceive of nothing but a passing tempest at my blundering, stupid thoughtfulness for her.

Suddenly at the door she stopped, and with her hand upon it said, “Good-night, Charlie;” and was out of the room in a twinkling.

I sprang from the sofa and to the foot of the stairs, but I saw only a glimpse of her vanishing dress; and though I called after her in low, beseeching tones, “Bessie!  Bessie!” a door shut in the distant corridor for only answer.

What to do?  In that decorous mansion I could not follow her; and my impulse to dash after her and knock at her door till she answered me, I was forced to put aside after a moment’s consideration.

I stood there in the quiet hall, the old clock ticking away a solemn “I-told-you-so!” in the corner.  I made one step toward the kitchen to send a message by one of the maids, but recoiled at the suggestion that this would publish a lovers’ quarrel.  So I retreated along the hall, my footsteps making no noise on the India matting, and entered the parlor again like a thief.  I sat down by the table:  “Bessie will certainly come back:  she will get over her little petulance, and know I am here waiting.”

All about the parlor were the traces of my darling.  A soft little coil of rose-colored Berlin wool, with its ivory needle sheathed among the stitches, lay in a tiny basket.  I lifted it up:  the basket was made of scented grass, and there was a delicious sweet and pure fragrance about the knitting-work.  I took possession of it and thrust it into my breast-pocket.  A magazine she had been reading, with the palest slip of a paper-knife—­a bit of delicate Swiss wood—­in it, next came in my way.  I tried to settle down and read where she had left off, but the words danced before my eyes, and a strange tune was repeating in my ears, “Good-night, Charlie—­good-night and good-bye!”