“But you cannot help the endeavor to read the mind of a person with whom you are talking.”

“Oh, that is different.  That is really an encounter of wits, for you know that the best part of a conversation is the things not said.  What they call mindreading is a vulgar business compared to this.  Don’t you think so, Mr. King?”

What Mr. King was actually thinking was that Irene’s eyes were the most unfathomable blue he ever looked into, as they met his with perfect frankness, and he was wondering if she were reading his present state of mind; but what he said was, “I think your sort of mind-reading is a good deal more interesting than the other,” and he might have added, dangerous.  For a man cannot attempt to find out what is in a woman’s heart without a certain disturbance of his own.  He added, “So you think our society is getting too sensitive and nervous, and inclined to make dangerous mental excursions?”

“I’m afraid I do not think much about such things,” Irene replied, looking out of the window into the storm.  “I’m content with a very simple faith, even if it is called ignorance.”

Mr. King was thinking, as he watched the clear, spirited profile of the girl shown against the white tumult in the air, that he should like to belong to the party of ignorance himself, and he thought so long about it that the subject dropped, and the conversation fell into ordinary channels, and Mrs. Benson appeared.  She thought they would move on as soon as the storm was over.  Mr. King himself was going south in the morning, if travel were possible.  When he said good-by, Mrs. Benson expressed the pleasure his acquaintance had given them, and hoped they should see him in Cyrusville.  Mr. King looked to see if this invitation was seconded in Irene’s eyes; but they made no sign, although she gave him her hand frankly, and wished him a good journey.

The next morning he crossed to Norfolk, was transported through the snow-covered streets on a sledge, and took his seat in the cars for the most monotonous ride in the country, that down the coast-line.

When next Stanhope King saw Fortress Monroe it was in the first days of June.  The summer which he had left in the interior of the Hygeia was now out-of-doors.  The winter birds had gone north; the summer birds had not yet come.  It was the interregnum, for the Hygeia, like Venice, has two seasons, one for the inhabitants of colder climes, and the other for natives of the country.  No spot, thought our traveler, could be more lovely.  Perhaps certain memories gave it a charm, not well defined, but still gracious.  If the house had been empty, which it was far from being, it would still have been peopled for him.  Were they all such agreeable people whom he had seen there in March, or has one girl the power to throw a charm over a whole watering-place?  At any rate, the place was full of delightful repose.  There was movement enough upon the water to satisfy one’s