“Not every man.  Many of them would help us to conceal what gave us pain.  I believe Mr. Winthrop is one of them.  Then should I listen to what he wishes buried in oblivion?”

“It may be for his happiness that you should, dear; and my story and his are, for awhile, the same.”

I had risen to put on my hat and cloak to get away from the temptation she pressed upon me; but at her last words I sank back into the chair.

“Can you be the woman he loved and was to marry?”

“Would it surprise you very much if I said Yes?”

“It would, and it would not.”

“Your words are ambiguous.  I was told you were exceedingly frank and impulsive, but one cannot always believe the public verdict.”

I was silent.  I recognized I had a clever woman to deal with, and for some reason she wished to use me for her own purpose, I was assured.  She arose, and crossing the room disappeared through the tapestry portiere.  I watched her as she moved gracefully away, her long silken robe seeming to give additional height to her already tall figure.  She presently returned, bringing a richly bound album, and laid it, open, on my knee.  I glanced at it, and saw my guardian’s pictured face looking at me, brighter, happier than it had ever done in reality.

“Does he look like that now?”

I studied the picture before I answered.

“His face looked nobler as I watched it last night while he was talking of some of his favorite authors.  It is stronger now, though.  Noble thoughts have matured the lines that were then only imperfectly formed.”

“Does he admit you to his study and converse on his favorite themes?” she asked, the childlike expression vanishing suddenly from her face.

“Yes.”

“Do you understand and enjoy what he says?”

“I do not understand all he says.  I am trying to lift myself to a nearer level with him.”

“Ah, you aim to be learned.  His tastes must have greatly changed, if he admires such females.”  Her eyes fell, but I fancied there was a gleam in them not altogether pleasant to behold.  I remained silent, not caring to explain it was Mr. Winthrop’s wish that I should continue, to some extent, the work that had occupied so many years of my life.  She turned the leaf of the album, and her own face looked out at me, not any more beautiful than now, but still as perfect as a poet’s dream.

“We had these taken the same day!”

She turned still another leaf and they sat together, she looking sweetly at me, but his eyes, I could fancy resting on her with a look in them I had never seen.

“He had the artist destroy the negative, but I secured this one, he fancies the flames have swallowed them all.  You will have no further scruples listening to his story?”

“Yes, I have scruples.  Much as I would like to hear it, I desire you to tell me nothing but what you feel certain he would be willing for me to hear.  Otherwise I cannot look into his eyes without a feeling of guilt.”