would tell you, but I can't tell you, because what I was thinking about
was connected entirely with someone else."

Mrs. Wilder's eyes narrowed, and she lifted her slightly pointed nose a
very little.

"Ah, now you make me inquisitive, and that is most unfair of you. Don't
tell me anything, Mr. Hartley, except just the name of the person
concerned. I'm very safe, as you know. Could you tell me the name, or
would it be wrong of you?"

"The name won't convey very much to you," said Hartley, laughing. "I was
thinking of the Padré, Heath. That doesn't give you much clue, does it?"

It was too dark for him to see a look that sprang into Mrs. Wilder's
eyes, or perhaps Hartley might have found a considerable disparity
between her look and her light words.

"Poor Mr. Heath, he is one of those terribly serious, conscientious
people, who go about life making themselves wretched for the good of
their souls. He ought to have lived in the Middle Ages. I won't ask you
_why_ you are thinking about him"--she got up and lingered a little, and
Hartley rose also--"but you know that you should not think of anyone
unless you want to make others think of them, too; it isn't at all safe.
I shall have to think of Mr. Heath all the way home, and he is _such_ a
gaunt, scraggy kind of thought."

"I wish I could replace him with myself," said Hartley, in a burst of
admiration.