"So you won't go with me," William said to Jessie, next morning, when she met him at the depot and gave him the note intended for her grandmother.
"No," she replied. "The city is dull as yet, and I'd rather remain here with Ellen."
"Oh, yes, Ellen," and William spoke quite indifferently. "Why didn't she come to bid me good-by?" and he looked curiously at Jessie to see how much she knew.
But Jessie suspected nothing, and replied at once:
"She has a headache this morning and was still in bed when I left her."
The heartless man was conscious of a pleasurable sensation,—a feeling of gratified vanity,—for he knew that headache was for him. But he merely said:
"Tell her that I'm sorry she's sick; she is a pleasant, quiet little girl, quite superior to country girls in general."
"There's the train," cried Jessie, and in a moment the cars rolled up before them.
"It will seem a young eternity until you come home," said William, clasping Jessie's hand. "Good-bye," he added, as "all aboard" was shouted in his ear, and as he turned away his place was taken by another, who had witnessed the parting between the two, and at whom Jessie looked wonderingly, exclaiming:
"Why, Walter, I didn't expect you to-day."