and pleasantly did he speak, and with such an air of sincerity.

"It is so, even in your house," he continued. "Your mamma, it is true,
is most kind to me. She is so good. You--but no, I don't know what you
think of me. But decidedly your aunt cannot abide me. I have vexed her
by some thoughtless, stupid speech. It is true that she does not like
me, is it not?"

"Yes," replied Liza, after a moment's hesitation. "You do not please
her."

Panshine let his fingers run rapidly over the keys; a scarcely
perceptible smile glided over his lips.

"Well, but you," he continued, "do you also think me an egotist?".

"I know so little about you," replied Liza; "but I should not call you
an egotist. On the contrary, I ought to feel grateful to you--"

"I know, I know what you are going to say," interrupted Panshine,
again running his fingers over the keys, "for the music, for the
books, which I bring you, for the bad drawings with which I ornament
your album, and so on, and so on. I may do all that, and yet be an
egotist. I venture to think that I do not bore you, and that you do
not think me a bad man; but yet you suppose that I--how shall I say
it?--for the sake of an epigram would not spare my friend, my father
him self."

"You are absent and forgetful, like all men of the world," said Liza,
"that is all."