was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening."

"I am very glad you did," said Mr. Ringgan. "I hope your way
will bring you here often. Wont you stay and try some of these
same muffins before you go?"

But this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; Fleda, it
must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking
but Mr. Carleton's look and smile. The muffins were a very
tame affair after it.

When supper was over, she sat down fairly to her letter, and
read it twice through before she folded it up. By this time
the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of Cynthia's
presence, and Fleda and her grandfather were alone in the
darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual
place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it;
both silent, both thinking, for some time. At length Mr.
Ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his
seriousness with the same effort.

"Well, dear!" said he, cheerfully, — "what does she say?"

"O, she says a great many things, grandpa; shall I read you
the letter?"

"No, dear, I don't care to hear it; only tell me what she
says."

"She says they are going to stay in Paris yet a good while