“What is wrong, that you favor me with such scrutinizing glances?”

“There is nothing wrong, Mr. Winthrop, so far as my eyes can penetrate.  I trust that to clearer vision than mine what lies deeper than human gaze can pierce, is equally perfect.”

“Is it your custom, little one, to pay your male acquaintances such open compliments?”

“It was not a compliment.  I only spoke the truth,” I said, quietly, as we walked side by side down the lilac-bordered footpath, the way we always went to church when we walked, as it cut off a-half mile or more.  It was a charming walk in summer; but now the low bushes looked common and ungraceful, stripped of their foliage; but the ground was high, and over their tops we could see the distant hills and the sun-kissed sea.  And this morning as I tripped lightly by my guardian’s side, I fancied I had never seen this quiet pathway even in its midsummer glory look so perfect.

“It is a wise plan not to tell your friends the truth always.  Masculine vanity is occasionally as strongly developed as feminine,” he said after we had gone some time in silence.

“But you are not vain, Mr. Winthrop; I never saw any one so free from it,” I said, gravely.

“You are determined to overwhelm me with your flattery.  We must change our conversational topics altogether.”

“First, let me ask if flattery is not half-sister to falsehood?”

“Probably they are pretty closely related; but why are you anxious to get that matter settled?”

“Because I do not want you to believe I ever tell you what is not true.  I do not think I could, if I tried.”

“You reserve that privilege, then, for your other friends.”

“Oh, no; I am never tempted to be untruthful with them.”

“And are you so tempted in your relation with me?” he asked, a little sternly.

“Sometimes.”

“Why, Medoline, you astonish me.  Tell me what reason you have for being so tempted?”

“You make me afraid of you; that is my only reason,” I murmured, trembling already with a touch of my natural fear of him.

“I am sorry to know that I stand in the relation of an ogre to you.”

“You do not, and I never meant to tell you that.  I am afraid of you.  By and bye, when I get a little older, I do not think that I shall be; but you make me tell you everything.”

“If that is the case I am surprised you have so little wrong-doing to confess.  I believe you will ultimately convince me that a few of your sex have escaped the taint of their evil inheritance.”

His words caused such a thrill of delight that, remembering what a tell-tale face I had, I turned my head to watch intently the white sails of a ship far away to the left; but I presently bethought myself to inquire what our special inheritance was.

“That which Eve left her daughters—­deceit.”

“But, Mr. Winthrop, we are alike descendants of hers; and the sons as often take after their mother as their father.”