“No, only I don’t care to hear any more about it.”

“Well, I hope you don’t think I am horrid.”

“I don’t, dear,” said Maria, with an odd sensation of tenderness for the other, weaker girl, whom she had handled in a measure roughly with her own stronger character.  She looked admiringly at her as she spoke.  “Nobody can ever really think you horrid,” she said.

“If they did, I should think I was horrid my own self,” said Lily, with the ready acquiescence in the opinion of another which signified the deepest admiration, even to her own detriment, and was the redeeming note in her character.

Maria laughed.  “I declare, Lily,” said she, “I hope you will never be accused of a crime, for I do believe even if you were innocent, you would side with the lawyer for the prosecution.”

“I don’t know but I should,” said Lily.

Then she ventured to say something more about George Ramsey, encouraged by Maria’s friendliness, but she met with such scanty sympathy that she refrained.  She arose soon, and said she thought she must go home.

“I am tired to-night, and I think I had better go to bed early,” she said.

“Don’t hurry,” Maria said, conventionally; but Lily kissed Maria and went.

Maria knew that her manner had driven Lily away, but she did not feel as if she could endure hearing her confidences, and Lily’s confidences had all the impetus of a mountain stream.  Had she remained, they could not have been finally checked.  Maria moved her window curtains slightly and watched Lily flitting across the yard.  She saw her enter the door, and also saw, quite distinctly the shadow of a man upon the white curtain as he rose to greet her when she entered.  She wondered whether the man was Dr. Ellridge, or George Ramsey.  The shadow looked like that of the older man, she thought, and she was not mistaken.

Lily, on entering the sitting-room, found Dr. Ellridge with her mother, and her mother’s face was flushed, and she had a conscious simper.  Lily said good-evening, and sat down as usual with her fancy-work, after she had removed her wraps, but soon her mother said to her that there was a good fire in her own room, and she thought that she had better go to bed early, as she must be tired, and Dr. Ellridge echoed her with rather a foolish expression.

“I don’t think you ought to sit up late working on embroidery, Lily,” he said.  “You are looking tired to-night.  You must let me prescribe for you a glass of hot milk and bed.”

Lily looked at both of them with wondering gentleness, then she rose.

“There is a good fire in the kitchen,” said her mother, “and Hannah will heat the milk for you.  You had better do as Dr. Ellridge said.  You are going out to-morrow night, too, you know.”

Lily said good-night, and went out with a smouldering disquiet in her heart.  When she asked Hannah out in the kitchen to heat the milk for her, because Dr. Ellridge said she must drink it and then go to bed, the girl, who had been long with the family and considered that she in reality was the main-spring of the house, eyed her curiously.