“It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I don’t think he is to bear every thing.”

“What did the other do?”

“He insulted him.”

“Indeed!”

The tone in which the elderly woman spoke was trying.  Hope was flushed, and warm, and disconcerted.  There was so much skepticism and contempt in the single word “indeed!” as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that Hope was really angry with her.

“I don’t see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that manner,” said she, haughtily.

“In what manner, Hope?” asked the other, calmly, fixing her eyes upon her companion.

“In that sneering, contemptuous manner,” replied Hope, loftily.  “Here is a young man who falls into an unfortunate quarrel, in which he happens to get the better of his opponent, who chances to be younger.  He helps him carefully into the carriage.  He explains upon the spot as well as he can, and to-day he comes to explain further; and you will not believe him; you misunderstand and misrepresent him.  It is unkind, Aunty—­unkind.”

Hope was almost sobbing.

“Has he once said he was sorry?” asked Mrs. Simcoe.  “Has he told you so this morning?”

“Of course he is sorry, Aunty.  How could he help it?  Do you suppose he is a brute?  Do you suppose he hasn’t ordinary human feeling?  Why do you treat him so?”

Hope asked the question almost fiercely.

Mrs. Simcoe sat profoundly still, and said nothing.  Her face seemed to grow even more rigid as she sat.  But suddenly turning to the proud young girl who stood at her side, her bosom heaving with passion, she drew her toward her by both hands, pulled her face down close to hers, and kissed her.

Hope sank on her knees by the side of Mrs. Simcoe’s chair.  All the pride in her heart was melted, and poured out of her eyes.  She buried her face upon Mrs. Simcoe’s shoulder, and her passion wept and sobbed itself away.  She did not understand what it was, nor why.  A little while before, upon the lawn, she had been so happy.  Now it seemed as if her heart were breaking.  When she grew calmer, Mrs. Simcoe, holding the fair face between her hands, and tenderly kissing it once more, said, slowly,

“Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone.  But you, too, will learn that our human affections are but tents of a night.”

“Aunty, Aunty, what do you mean?” asked Hope, who had risen as the other was speaking, and now stood beside her, pale and proud.

“I mean, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt.”

Hope’s hands dropped by her side.  She stepped back a little.  A feeling of inexpressible solitude fell upon her—­of alienation from her grandfather, and of an inexplicable separation from her old nurse—­a feeling as if she suddenly stood alone in the world—­as if she had ceased to be a girl.

“Aunty, is it wrong to love him?”

Before Mrs. Simcoe could answer there was a knock at the door.  It was Hiram, who announced the victim of yesterday’s battle, waiting in the parlor to say a word to Miss Wayne.