"You must not judge me so harshly," she said, with gentle reproach. "I
hope I am not quite so bad as you think."
"I am very glad you are interested in Mr. Winthrop, for other than
selfish reasons," I said, bluntly.
She bowed her head meekly. "You will try to influence him then in the
matter of church going and other pure endeavors--won't you?"
"I will try," I promised, rather uncertainly.
"And begin at once."
"Yes. I have given you the promise and usually keep my word."
"Then good-bye until next week."
The lamps were lighted when I passed along the oak walk that was my
nearest approach home to Oaklands, and the fact that I had broken my
promise to Mr. Winthrop never again to remain out alone after night
filled me with alarm and self-reproach. I succeeded in gaining the house
unperceived and was in abundant time for dinner, which I feared might
have been served.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE CHANGED HEART.
When I entered the softly illumined dining-room, I was surprised to
find Mr. Winthrop standing near the fire, and gazing into it with a
preoccupied expression. Mrs. Flaxman was sitting in her favorite corner,
a book lying open on her knee, her eyes fixed on Mr. Winthrop somewhat
anxiously. Instinctively I felt something unusual had disturbed their
serenity--the sympathetic influences about me in the air which most of us
know something about, acquainted me with the fact. I was almost beside
Mr. Winthrop when he began to say, "Medoline must not know"--the sentence
was left unfinished, for Mrs.
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