“I think,” replied Annie, “that it is wild honeysuckle,” and her voice trembled slightly.  The perfumed night and the strange presence beside her went to the child’s head a bit.  The two walked along under the trees, which cast etching-like shadows in the broad moonlight, and neither talked much.  There was scarcely a lighted window in any of the houses and they had a delicious sense of isolation,—­the girl and the man awake in a sleeping world.  Annie made no further allusion to Miss Wallingford.  She had for almost the first time in her life a little selfish feeling that she did not wish to jar a perfect moment even with the contemplation of a friend’s troubles.  She was very happy walking beside Von Rosen, holding up her flimsy embroidered skirts carefully lest they come in contact with dewy grass.  She had been admonished by her grandmother and her aunts so to do and reminded that the frail fabric would not endure much washing however skilful.  Between the shadows, her lovely face showed like a white flower as Von Rosen looked down upon it.  He wondered more and more that he had never noticed this exquisite young creature before.  He did not yet dream of love in connection with her, but he was conscious of a passion of surprised admiration and protectiveness.

“How is it that I have never seen you when I call on your Aunt Harriet?” he asked when he parted with her at her own gate, a stately wrought iron affair in a tall hedge of close trimmed lilac.

“I am generally there, I think,” replied Annie, but she was also conscious of a little surprise that she had not paid more attention when this young man, who looked at her so kindly, called.  Then came one of her sudden laughs.

“What is it?” asked Von Rosen.

“Oh, nothing, except that the cat is usually there too,” replied Annie.  Von Rosen looked back boyishly.

“Be sure I shall see you next time and hang the cat,” he said.

When Annie was in her room unclasping her corals, she considered how very much mortified and troubled her friend, Margaret Edes, must feel.  She recalled how hideous it had all been—­that appearance of the Western girl in the dining-room door-way, her rude ways, her flushed angry face.  Annie did not dream of blaming Margaret.  She was almost a fanatic as far as loyalty to her friends was concerned.  She loved Margaret and she had only a feeling of cold dislike and disapprobation toward Miss Wallingford who had hurt Margaret.  As for that charge of “trapping,” she paid no heed to it whatever.  She made up her mind to go and see Margaret the very next day and tell her a secret, a very great secret, which she was sure would comfort her and make ample amends to her for all her distress of the night before.  Little Annie Eustace was so very innocent and ignorant of the ways of the world that had her nearest and dearest been able to look into her heart of hearts, they might have been appalled, incredulous and reverent, according to their natures.  For instance, this very good, simple young girl who had been born with the light of genius always assumed that her friends would be as delighted at any good fortune of hers as at their own.  She fairly fed upon her admiration of Alice Mendon that evening when she had stepped so nobly and tactfully into the rather frightful social breach and saved, if not wholly, the situation.