"What have I done to deserve such reproaches?" asked the Doctor, in return. "This morning you sent me this with your compliments.
"I?" cried Laura; "you sent me these cat's paws. But I did not send that handkerchief. My handkerchief had none of the beauty of this colored print--it was only white."
"I may say the same of my gloves; they were not blessed with claws--they were plain kid."
Laura turned to him, anxiously gazing into his face. "Is that true?"
"It is true," said the Doctor, with convincing sincerity; "I know nothing about these gloves."
"Then we are both victims of a deception," cried Laura, confounded. "Oh, forgive me, and forget what has passed." Guessing the state of the case, she continued: "I beg of you to say no more on the subject. Permit me to bind your hand with this handkerchief."
He held out his hand; she staunched the blood with her handkerchief, and hastily wound it about the scratches.
"It is too small for a bandage," she said, sorrowfully; "we must put your own over it. This has been a disagreeable day, Doctor. Oh, forget it, and do not be angry with me."
The Doctor was by no means inclined to be angry, as might be perceived from the eager conversation into which they now fell. Their hearts were lightened; they vied with each other in their efforts at sincerity; and when the carriage set them down at their own doors, they bade each other a cordial good-night.
The following morning, Mr. Hummel entered Laura's private room, and laid a blue paper upon the table.