I slipped into my own room to lay aside my wraps, still smiling over Mrs. Flaxman’s childish ideas respecting Mr. Bovyer in the role of a lover, and also a little troubled about the wording of the report I was expected to give.  His smile would be more sarcastic than ever, if I confessed my tears; and, alas, I had but little other impression to convey of the majestic harmonies than one of profound sadness.  I glanced into my mirror; the picture reflected back startled me.  In the handsome gown, with the same gems that had once enhanced my mother’s charms, the transformation wrought was considerable; but my eyes were shining with a deep, unusual brilliancy, and a new expression caused by the influences of the evening had changed my face almost beyond my own recognition.  I went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book.  I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my presence.  I went to the fireside.  On the mantle I noticed, for the first time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so mournfully in my ears.  I took it in my hand and went nearer the light, soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my guardian over his book.  When I looked at him his book was closed, and his eyes regarding me attentively.

“Do you recognize the face?”

“Oh, yes.  I wonder he looks like other men.”

“Why should he look differently?”

“Because he was different.  I wonder what his thoughts were when he was writing that symphony?” I held the bust off reflectively.

“Did you enjoy your evening’s entertainment?”

“Yes and no,—­I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop.  Please don’t ask me to describe it.”

“I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer—­he could tell me better than you.  He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a fear he sees too far beneath our mask.”

“I don’t want to see him any more then,” I said impetuously.

“Why not?”

“I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than you do, Mr. Winthrop.”

“How do you know that I object?”

“Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?”

“Possibly.  I was speaking in a general way—­meant humanity at large, rather than my own individual self.”

“Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?” I said, taking a step nearer, and looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally penetrating.

“No, Medoline.  You, least of any one I know,” he said, quietly.  I looked at him with surprise—­perhaps a trifle grieved.

“Does that offend you?” he asked after a pause.

“It wounds me; for I am your friend.”

“I am glad of that, little one.”

“Glad that you have given me pain?” I asked, with an odd feeling as if I wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.