I put my books hastily as well as securely away; and then took
my hat and rushed over to Miss Cardigan's. It was a very warm
June day. I remember now the cool feeling of her marble hall.
Miss Cardigan sat in her matted parlour, busy as always,
looking quiet and comfortable in a white muslin wrapper, and
neat as a pin; also an invariable thing. Something in the
peaceful, settled, calm air of the place impressed me, I
suppose, with a feeling of contrast; of an uninvaded,
undisturbed domain, which changes were not threatening. I had
gone over the street hurriedly; I walked into the room with a
slow step.

"Daisy! my dear child!" Miss Cardigan exclaimed, - "is it you?
and is all over? I see it is. Just sit down, and you shall
have some strawberries; you look tired, my love."

I sat still, and waited, and eat my strawberries.

"Miss Cardigan," I said at length, "what is Christian's
address in Washington?"

"In Washington? I don't know. Did he never give it to you?"

"No, ma'am; nothing except 'Washington.' "

"I suppose that is enough. Haven't you written to him?"

"I have written once. - I have been thinking, Miss Cardigan,
that I must stop the writing."