The moment the benediction was pronounced Floy left the church and walked rapidly away, turning the first corner she came to, nor paused nor slackened her pace till she reached Mrs. Sharp’s door.

“Had you a good sermon?” queried Hetty at the dinner-table.

“Yes,” Floy answered absently.

“It does not seem to have refreshed you much,” sneered Mr. Sharp, with a keen glance at the pale, sorrowful face whereon the traces of tears were very evident. “I would prescribe a nap instead, next Sunday.”

“Don’t tease her, Thorne,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “she’s been trying to do her duty like a Christian. What is it Shakespeare says?”

“Madam, let me counsel you to purchase a copy of the works of that immortal bard, and study it for your own edification, for ours, and for that of the world at large,” he returned loftily and with a contemptuous wave of the hand, as he passed his cup to be refilled.

Hetty flushed indignantly.

“It might be for your edification, no doubt,” she retorted; “this passage for one—‘Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.’”

“Hush, hush, child! that’s too strong,” said her mother, taking the cup. “But unasked advice isn’t apt to be welcome, Thorne; what is it Shakespeare says?” and the tea-pot she had just lifted was set down again while she seemed lost in contemplation. “Ah! I have it:

Mr. Sharp rose, and, pushing his plate angrily away, strode from the room. Mrs. Sharp looked annoyed, but made no remark, contenting herself with a reproachful glance at her sister and niece.

Hetty accepted her share with extreme nonchalance. As for the other delinquent, she was too much elated by her successful quotation to heed so trifling a matter as the passing displeasure of her sister—a displeasure, too, which, as she shrewdly suspected, was more than half assumed for the mere sake of appearance.

That was the fact, and yet there was a real vexation to Mrs. Sharp in what had occurred, because she would have to bear the brunt of his ill-humor.

With that unpleasant conviction weighing upon her, she breathed a heavy sigh as she, too, left the table and the room.

“Poor Aunt Prue!” said Hetty, looking after her. “What a sad misnomer was her name when she undertook the care and support of—”

“Hush, hush, child!” interrupted her mother.

“Well, well, I must try to keep my opinions to myself,” pursued the girl, with a serio-comic expression, “but I can’t help feeling sorry for her, or glad for ourselves, that we’ll get no more Sharp prickles from the Thorne to-day. He’s bound to spend the rest of it in a fit o’ the pouts, and will not darken these doors till noon of to-morrow.”

Mrs. Sharp found her Thorne lying on a couch in their chamber, literally pouting like the great baby that he was.

“My dear,” she said soothingly, “you mustn’t mind that saucy girl; she isn’t worth it, and—”

“No, I suppose not; but if you cared a penny for me you’d send her away at once, or rather would have done so long ago.”

“But, unfortunately, Thorne, we can’t do without her, and, still more unfortunately, she is perfectly aware of the fact, and doesn’t scruple to take every advantage of it.”

“‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ Mrs. Sharp, and if you were the right sort of wife you’d never sit by and see your husband insulted at his own table as I have been to-day.”

“His own table indeed!” thought she; “it’s more Hetty’s than his; more mine than hers. But—ah, well, I must even make the best of a bad bargain.”

And going into an adjoining room, she presently returned laden with delicacies—fine confections and tropical fruits—which she pressed upon him, saying, “You made such a poor dinner; hardly eat enough to keep a bird alive; do try to eke it out with these. These grapes are splendid, so are the oranges and bananas, and I never saw finer candies.”

“I don’t want them,” he said shortly; “if things are to be locked up and kept from my knowledge till it suits you to bring them out, I’ll not touch them.”

At this she was justly indignant, and, losing all patience, informed him that “since he was determined to ‘bite off his nose to spite his face’ he was entirely welcome to do so.”

“To think that I should ever have married a woman who can use such vulgarisms as that!” said he, turning his back on her.

“Better be vulgar than wicked!” she retorted, “and the way you’re behaving is downright wicked—such temper and ingratitude! If you were a child I should say you wanted a good spanking, and I rather think so as it is. If I were you I’d really try to put away childish things.”

“You, who can be guilty of such extravagance as this, do well to reprove me, your liege lord,” he remarked with bitter sarcasm. “Cast the beam from your own eye, and you may perhaps see clearly to pull the mote out of mine.”

“My liege lord indeed!” she repeated scornfully; “rather my— But I will not bandy words with you, and, lest I should be too strongly tempted to do so, shall leave you to pout it out alone.”

So saying, she gathered up her rejected dainties and swept from the room, leaving him to repent of his refusal at leisure, for no child could be fonder of sweets than he.

All that day and the succeeding night Espy was present in Floy’s dreams whether sleeping or waking. Nor were they happy dreams, for they seemed to take him farther and farther from her. Yet she strove to be cheerful in the presence of others, and only Hetty suspected how hollow was the pretence. Monday passed by, bringing no unusual event. On Tuesday, at a late hour in the morning, she was again directed to go to the residence of the Leas; this time to fit a dress for Carrie’s mother.

“Mrs. Lea is not quite ready for you yet, miss,” said the servant who answered her ring. “She says you’ll be so good as to wait till she sends for you. Just walk in here, please,” he added on his own responsibility, perceiving that he was addressing a lady, and throwing open the door of the library as he spoke.

Floy stepped in, the door closing behind her, and instantly became aware that the room had an occupant, and only one—a young and handsome man, seated comfortably in an easy chair by the fire, and busied with the morning paper.

He looked up; the paper was suddenly flung aside, and in an instant he had caught both her hands in his, his face all aglow with delighted surprise.

“Floy, Floy! have I found you at last? Oh, darling, can you, will you forgive those cruel words of mine? Ah, if you knew how bitterly they have been repented!”

It was her own Espy again. Tears of joy rained down her cheeks; she could not speak for emotion; but she did not repulse him as he took her in his arms and folded her to his heart with many a tender caress, whispering the while, “Floy, Floy! my own darling, my own little wife!”

“No, no, not that!” she sobbed. “Oh, Espy, Espy, we must part!”

“For a little while—only for a little while—dearest.”

“Your parents—have they relented?” she asked, wiping the tears from her eyes and gazing steadily into his.

His cheek flushed.

“I shall be of age in a few weeks, and be my own master,” he said, drawing himself up proudly.

“But not mine,” she said very low—so low that he scarcely caught the words—and gently releasing herself from his embrace.

He flushed more hotly than before. “Oh, Floy, have I ever seemed to think it? Nay, have I not rather been your devoted slave?”

“You were always good to me, Espy; always watching over and caring for me, and ready and anxious to give me the best of everything. Oh, I shall never, never forget your goodness! no, not even if—”

“If what, Floy?”

“Even though another has—has won you—”

“No, no, never!” he cried, taking her hands again. “I never have, never can love any one but you. Why should you think it?” and he gazed searchingly into her eyes.

Then she told him something of what she had involuntarily heard a few days previous while waiting in Carrie Lea’s bedroom.

He was indignant and evidently surprised to learn that the girl had his photograph; puzzled, too, to conjecture how it had come into her possession.

“It must have been somehow through her brother,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But, Floy, I have never paid her any particular attention,” he added with deprecating look and tone.

“I believe you fully, Espy,” she replied, with a confiding smile; “but since I have released you from your engagement to me—”

“I do not accept my release,” he interrupted impulsively, “and that being the case, I am answerable to you for my conduct toward other women.”

She shook her head, and was opening her lips to speak again, when the sound of approaching steps prevented. She drew hastily away from Espy’s side, and, seating herself by a window, seemed to have her attention fully occupied with something that was going on in the street.

The door opened.

“Miss, Mrs. Lea says you’ll please walk up now to her dressing-room.”

Espy, standing before the grate with his back to the door, turned at the words and made a stride forward, his face blazing with indignation, but only to see Floy’s black skirt vanish through the door, which instantly closed between them.

“What does it mean?” he asked himself half aloud; “I thought she was merely making a morning call, but that fellow spoke to her as if she were a menial like himself.”

There was a sound of light laughter and gay girlish voices on the stairway, and in the hall without, the door again opened, and the smiling face of Miss Carrie Lea looked in.

“The sleigh’s at the door, Mr. Alden, and we’re all ready waiting for you.”

He had engaged to drive out with the ladies at that hour in Mr. Lea’s fine sleigh, behind his handsome, spirited bays; and anxious though he was beyond expression to snatch another interview with Floy by intercepting her as she should leave the house, he felt compelled to go, not being able on the spur of the moment to think of any plausible excuse.

Since there was no alternative, he made the best of it; with smile and jest handed the ladies to their places, tucked the buffalo-robes carefully about them, took his seat by Carrie Lea’s side, and drove off, fervently hoping that something would occur to cause a speedy return.