Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed.

In a moment he saw that there had been no injury. Hope's eyes met his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause.

"How strange it is," said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the people busied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much easier than with Hope--"how strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this way, Miss Wayne!"

Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope listened to him.

"Where _can_ I see you?" he continued; "certainly your grandfather was unkind--"

Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement--every look--every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning.

"I can see you nowhere but at home," she answered.

He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would speak. The silence was dreadful. She could not bear it.

"I am very sorry," said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief.

"I hope you are," he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness, not of reproach. There was another painful pause.

"I hope so, because I am going away," said Abel.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"When?"

"In a few weeks."

"Where is your home?"

"In New York."

It was very much to the point. Yet both of them wanted to say so much more; and neither of them dared!

"Miss Hope!" whispered Abel.

Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audacity of the familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise. She bent her head a little lower, as if listening more intently.

"May I see you before I go?"

Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that when the lion had struck him with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured.

"Hope," said Mrs. Simcoe, "the horses will be brought up. We had better walk home. Here, my dear!"

"I can only see you at home," Hope said, in a low voice, as she rose.

"Then we part here forever," he replied. "I am sorry."

Still there was no reproach; it was only a deep sadness which softened that musical voice.

"Forever!" he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless music.

Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it.

"I am sorry, too," she said, in a hurried whisper, as she moved slowly toward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disappointed.

"Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!" he said. He could not see Hope's paler face as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he was offended.

"Good-by!" was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe's arm and walked away.

CHAPTER XIII.

SOCIETY.

Tradition declares that the family of Newt has been uniformly respectable but honest--so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the father of Abel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sachem, had a crest.

He had even buttons for his coachman's coat with a stag's head engraved upon them. The same device was upon his sealring. It appeared upon his carriage door. It figured on the edges of his dinner-service. It was worked into the ground glass of the door that led from his dining-room to the back stairs. He had his paper stamped with it; and a great many of his neighbors, thinking it a neat and becoming ornament, imitated him in its generous use.

Mrs. Newt's family had a crest also. She was a Magot--another of the fine old families which came to this country at the earliest possible period.

The Magots, however, had no buttons upon their coachman's coat; one reason of which omission was, perhaps, that they had no coachman. But when the ladies of the Magot family went visiting or shopping they hired a carriage, and insisted that the driver should brush his hat and black his boots; so that it was not every body who knew that it was a livery equipage.

Their friends did, of course; but there were a great many people from the country who gazed at it, in passing, with the same emotion with which they would have contemplated a private carriage; which was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Magots.

Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. There was old Mrs. Beriah Dagon--dowager Mrs. Dagon, she was called--aunt of Mr. Newt, who never said, "I see the Magots have hired a hackney-coach from Jobbers to make calls in. They quarreled with Gudging over his last bill. Medora Magot has turned her last year's silk, which is a little stained and worn; but then it does just as well."

By-and-by her nephew Boniface married Medora's sister, Nancy.

It was Mrs. Dagon who sat with Mrs. Newt in her parlor, and said to her,

"So your son Abel is coming home. I'm glad to hear it. I hope he knows how to waltz, and isn't awkward. There are some very good matches to be made; and I like to have a young man settle early. It's better for his morals. Men are bad people, my dear. I think Maria Chubleigh would do very well for Abel. She had a foolish affair with that Colonel Orson, but it's all over. Why on earth do girls fall in love with officers? They never have any pay worth speaking of, and a girl must tramp all over the land, and live I don't know how. Pshaw! it's a wretched business. How's Mr. Dinks? I saw him and Fanny waltzing last month at the Shrimps'. Who are the Shrimps? Somebody says something about the immense fortune Mr.

Shrimp has made in the oil trade. You should have seen Mrs. Winslow Orry peering about at the Shrimps. I really believe she counted the spoons.

What an eye that woman has, and what a tongue! Are you really going to Saratoga? Will Boniface let you? He is the kindest man! He is so generous that I sometimes fear somebody'll be taking advantage of him. Gracious me! how hot it is!"

It was warm, and Mrs. Dagon fanned herself. When she and Mrs. Newt met there was a tremendous struggle to get the first innings of the conversation, and neither surrendered the ground until fairly forced off by breathlessness and exhaustion.

"Yes, we shall go to Saratoga," began Mrs. Newt; "and I want Abel to come, so as to take him. There'll be a very pleasant season. What a pity you can't go! However, people must regard their time of life, and take care of their health. There's old Mrs. Octoyne says she shall never give up. She hopes to bring out her great-grand-daughter next winter, and says she has no life but in society. I suppose you know Herbert Octoyne is engaged to one of the Shrimps. They keep their carriage, and the girls dress very prettily. Herbert tells the young men that the Shrimps are a fine old family, which has been long out of society, having no daughters to marry; so they have not been obliged to appear. But I don't know about visiting them. However, I suppose we shall. Herbert Octoyne will give 'em family, if they really haven't it; and the Octoynes won't be sorry for her money. What a pretty shawl! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe has given Laura a diamond pin which cost five hundred dollars? Extravagant fellow! Yet I like to have young men do these things handsomely. I do think it's such a pity about Laura's nose--"

"She can smell with it, I suppose, mother; and what else do you want of a nose?"

It was Miss Fanny Newt who spoke, and who had entered the room during the conversation. She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with firm, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair, and that kind of composure of manner which is called repose in drawing-rooms and boldness in bar-rooms.

"Gracious, Fanny, how you do disturb one! I didn't know you were there.

Don't be ridiculous. Of course she can smell with it. But that isn't all you want of a nose."

"I suppose you want it to turn up at some people," replied Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. "Well, Aunt Dagon, who've you been lunching on?"