“Ah! there goes the lady,” she said.  “I wonder if she is always going down town at this hour?  You will have to manage to go either earlier or later, or else people will begin to talk about you.”

Stephen White had one rule of conduct:  when he was uncertain what to do, not to do any thing.  He broke it in this instance, and had reason to regret it long.  He spoke impulsively on the instant, and revealed to mother his dawning interest in Mercy, and planted then and there an ineffaceable germ of distrust in her mind.

“Now, mother,” he said, “what’s the use of you beginning to set up this new worry?  Mrs. Philbrick is a widow, and very sad and lonely.  She is the friend of my friend, Harley Allen; and I am in duty bound to show her some attention, and help her if I can.  She is also a bright, interesting person; and I do not know so many such that I should turn my back on one under my own roof.  I have not so many social pleasures that I should give up this one, just on account of a possible gossip about it.”

Silence would have been wiser.  Mrs. White did not speak for a moment or two; then she said, in a slow and deliberate manner, as if reflecting on a problem,—­“You enjoy Mrs. Philbrick’s society, then, do you, Stephen?  How much have you seen of her?”

Still injudicious and unlike himself, Stephen answered, “Yes, I think I shall enjoy it very much, and I think you will enjoy it more than I shall; for you may see great deal of her.  I have only seen her once, you know.”

“I don’t suppose she will care any thing about me,” replied Mrs. White, with an emphasis on the last personal pronoun which spoke volumes.  “Very few people do.”

Stephen made no reply.  It had just dawned on his consciousness that he had been blundering frightfully, and his mind stood still for a moment, as a man halts suddenly, when he finds himself in a totally wrong road.  To turn short about is not always the best way of getting off a wrong road, though it may be the quickest way.  Stephen turned short about, and exclaimed with a forced laugh, “Well, mother, I don’t suppose it will make any great difference to you, if she doesn’t.  It is not a matter of any moment, anyhow, whether we see any thing of either of them or not.  I thought she seemed a bright, cheery sort of body, that’s all.  Good-by,” and he ran out of the house.

Mrs. White lay for a long time with her eyes fixed on the wall.  The expression of her face was of mingled perplexity and displeasure.  After a time, these gave place to a more composed and defiant look.  She had taken her resolve, had marked out her line of conduct.

“I won’t say another word to Stephen about her,” she thought.  “I’ll just watch and see how things go.  Nothing can happen in this house without my knowing it.”

The mischief was done; but Mrs. White was very much mistaken in the last clause of her soliloquy.