“You must not turn inquisitor.  I have not, however, offended against you, therefore you will come to see me again.  Shall we say to-morrow?  I seem to feel as if Oaklands and Mr. Winthrop were brought near to me when you are present.”

“I cannot promise to come again this week, at least.”

“Shall we say next Monday then?  But it seems such a long time to wait.  I was not trained to patience in childhood, and I find it a difficult task, learning it now.”

“Unless something unforeseen should happen to prevent, you may look for me on Monday next.”  I promised, feeling a sort of pity for her in her lonely condition.

“Just one word more.  Your guardian, they tell me, does not attend church regularly.”

“Mr. Winthrop does not profess to be a religious man.”

“Could you not influence him to a better life?  Have you ever asked him to accompany you to church?”

“Certainly not.  He is a better judge than I as to his duty in the matter.”

“I do not think so.  I fear he is drifting very far from his boyhood’s teachings.  His mother was a perfect woman, so far as I have been able to learn.”

I looked my surprise; for I had not expected to hear such words from her lips.

“You must not judge me so harshly,” she said, with gentle reproach.  “I hope I am not quite so bad as you think.”

“I am very glad you are interested in Mr. Winthrop, for other than selfish reasons,” I said, bluntly.

She bowed her head meekly.  “You will try to influence him then in the matter of church going and other pure endeavors—­won’t you?”

“I will try,” I promised, rather uncertainly.

“And begin at once.”

“Yes.  I have given you the promise and usually keep my word.”

“Then good-bye until next week.”

The lamps were lighted when I passed along the oak walk that was my nearest approach home to Oaklands, and the fact that I had broken my promise to Mr. Winthrop never again to remain out alone after night filled me with alarm and self-reproach.  I succeeded in gaining the house unperceived and was in abundant time for dinner, which I feared might have been served.

CHAPTER XXII.

The changed heart.

When I entered the softly illumined dining-room, I was surprised to find Mr. Winthrop standing near the fire, and gazing into it with a preoccupied expression.  Mrs. Flaxman was sitting in her favorite corner, a book lying open on her knee, her eyes fixed on Mr. Winthrop somewhat anxiously.  Instinctively I felt something unusual had disturbed their serenity—­the sympathetic influences about me in the air which most of us know something about, acquainted me with the fact.  I was almost beside Mr. Winthrop when he began to say, “Medoline must not know”—­the sentence was left unfinished, for Mrs. Flaxman seeing me said, abruptly,