"Oh yes, I did," she was studying his startled face curiously, "or rather you told me you knew about it—that you had heard of it."
"But I had never heard of it—I never dreamed of it till this minute. Besides that would not make a particle of difference to me. It would only make me love you more—it does make me love you more."
Her face clouded over with perplexity. Somebody was coining down the sidewalk, and she led him into the parlor.
"Why, Mr. Westerfelt," she began again, "I—I don't know what to make of you. It was one day when you were sick here, just after you asked me to burn a letter you had got. I remember it distinctly."
He started. "I was not alluding to that," he said.
"Then what were you speaking of?"
"Of Wambush, and all the rest. Oh, Harriet, I've tried so hard to forget him and overcome my—"
"What about him? Answer me; what about him?"
"The letter I asked you to burn was not for me. It was from old Wambush to Toot. In it he mentioned you, and how you helped Toot hide that whiskey, and how you confessed your love and cried in the old man's arms."
"Mr. Westerfelt, are you crazy? Are you a raving maniac? I never did anything like that. Toot Wambush was writing about Hettie Fergusson. She is his sweetheart; she helped him hide the barrel of whiskey in the kitchen. Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, was that what you've been thinking all this time?"