But when the wedding was over, and I had made up my week of lost sleep, and he and my brother had kept themselves out of the way on a camp-hunt, for my mother to do up her week of house-cleaning,—­it is here that our story proper begins.

As we were leaving the breakfast-table one morning my brother caught my dress-sleeve, and, dropping in the rear of Mr. Tennent Tremont, allowed him to find the verandah:  “Really, sis, I don’t think you are doing the clever thing, quite.”

“How?”

“Why, in not helping me to entertain my friend.”

“Getting tired of him?”

“No, he isn’t one of that kind; but, to tell the truth, I am too busy just now to give him the whole of my time.”

“Too busy turning your own cakes.  Yes, I see.”

“Which is no more than my sister is doing; which reminds me to say that J.B. will call this morning, he desired me to inform you.  But, dear sis, we must not be so absorbed in our own love-matters as to give my friend only a moiety of our attention, for, poor fellow! he has one of his own.”

“So I am to bore him for the sake of relieving you?  Is that my role?”

“Now stop!  He simply wants a lady confidante.”

I broke away from my brother’s hold, and ran up to my room to see if all was right for my expected caller, giving my right ear a pull, by way of saying to that victimized organ, “You are needed.”

And what think you I did next?  Got out my embroidery-material bag, and put it in order for action at a moment’s warning.  I was prepared for a reasonable amount of martyrdom pertaining to my profession, but I was always an economist of time, and not another unemployed hour would I yield to the selfish demands of my forthcoming job.

The next day was one of November drizzle, the house confinement of which, my adroit brother declared, could only be mitigated by my presence in the sitting-room until the improved state of the weather allowed their escape from it.

I was in the habit of appropriating such weather to my piano, and I had not touched it for a month.  Whether Mr. Tennent Tremont’s nerves were in a sound state or not, I was determined to practice until twelve.  But when he came in from the library and assisted me in opening the instrument, I was obliged to ask him what he would have.  They were my first direct words to him, our three weeks’ guest.

“Oh, ‘Summer Night’ is a favorite,” he said.

I gave him the song, and then executed the long variations; then, dropping my tired hands in my lap, inquired whether he liked vocal or instrumental best.

“Not any more of either, just now, thanking you kindly for what you have given me,” he said.  “Have you ever been a confidante, Miss ——?”

“That is my vocation, Mr. Tremont,” I replied, grasping my bag.

“Which? your embroidery or—­”

“Both combined,” I tried to say pleasantly, “as on this occasion.  I am at Mr. Tremont’s service;” and I threaded my tapestry-needle.