I thanked him and promised to join him shortly.

When we were alone Mrs. Flaxman said, with a reflective air, as she stood polishing the cream jug; “I never expected to see Mr. Winthrop so nice to a woman as he is to you.”

“Why, Mrs. Flaxman, do you call him nice?” I asked in amazement.

“Yes, dear, beautifully so.  He puts on a brusque outside, but it is as much to conceal his liking for you as anything, and then he does more for you than he would for any one else in the world.  Now, if I had tried for a lifetime, I could not have got him out to Beech Street Church and I doubt if there is any one besides yourself could have done it.  Some men, unknown to themselves, have strong paternal instincts; and it only requires the right touch to waken these instincts.”

“But he is too young to be my father; and any way he said he was not anxious for me to regard him in that way,” I remonstrated.

“He is old in heart if not in years, my child.  His has been an intense and also bitter life,—­the last few years at least.”

“Yes, I know,” I said unthinkingly; “but a man like Mr. Winthrop is foolish to let a woman like Mrs. Le Grande embitter his life.”

“Medoline, where did you hear of Mrs. Le Grande?” she asked sharply.

My face crimsoned guiltily, but I remained silent.

“Was it Mrs. Blake, or any of the Mill Road people told you?”

“No, indeed.  I have told you before they never gossip about him.”

“Was it any of our own friends, the Carters, or Flemings?  I know they are vulgarly inclined, for all they are in good society.”

“It was none of these, nor any one you have seen for a good many years, that told me what I know.”

“You must tell me, Medoline, who told you.  It is the first time I have tried to force your confidence.”

“But I have promised not to tell you.”

“Had you met Mrs. Le Grande before you were with her yesterday when she fainted in church?”

My answer was a sob.

“Where had you met her, Medoline?”

“You will tell Mr. Winthrop, and he will never forgive me.”

“Then you have really been with her?”

“Yes, she sent me a letter requesting me to visit her.”

“And you went.  When was this?”

“A week ago.  But I did not dream she was a rich woman or had ever known Mr. Winthrop.  I thought it was some one poor and in distress.  I did not know it was a person suffering from heartbreak.”

“Heart-break!” she exclaimed, with such a flash of scorn, that the surprise her words created effectually dried my tears.

“She has no heart to get broken, except the organ that propels her blood—­even a cat has the same.”

“She is very beautiful, and is also extremely anxious to make reparation to Mr. Winthrop for the wrong she has done him.”

“She is as heartless and selfish as she is beautiful; and if she were to be allowed the privilege of making reparation, the second offence would be worse than the original one.  But we will not mention her name again.  Leave her alone as she deserves.”