"You know from my manner what I saw," she said, smiling and blushing slightly.
"No, I only hoped; I have not a woman's eyesight."
She bit her lip, contracted her wide, low brow for a moment, then turned and said frankly:
"I did not mean to be rude in my rather direct glance. Even though a music-teacher, I have had compliments before, and I have usually found them as empty and insincere as the people who employed them. I am somewhat alone in the world, Mr. Morton, and I belong to that class of timid and rather helpless creatures whose safety lies in their readiness to run to cover. I have found truth the best cover for me, situated as I am. I aim to be just what I seem—neither more nor less; and I am very much afraid of people who do not speak the truth, especially when they are disposed to say nice things."
"And you saw?"
"I saw that bad as you are, I could trust you," she said, laughing; "a fact that I was glad to learn since you are so bent on forcing your society upon us all for a time."
"Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed, "I thought yesterday that I was a bankrupt, but I must have a little of the man left in me to have passed this ordeal. Had I seen distrust in your eyes and consequent reserve in your manner, I should have been sorely wounded."
"No," she replied, shaking her head, "when a man's character is such as to excite distrust, he could not be so sorely wounded as you suggest."
"I'm not sure of that," I said. "I think a man may know himself to be weak and wicked, and yet suffer greatly from such consciousness."
"Why should he weakly suffer? Why not simply do right? I can endure a certain amount of honest wickedness, but there is a phase of moral weakness that I detest," and for a moment her face wore an aspect that would have made any one wronging her tremble, for it was pure, strong, and almost severe.