"I was hoping to see you before you left," said a pleasant quiet
voice close by her. She looked up and saw Charles Osmond.

Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she became aware that she
was trembling from head to foot. A little delicate, sensitive
thing, the unsparing censure and the rude reception she had just
met with had quite upset her.

Charles Osmond retained her hand in his strong clasp, and looked
questioningly into her bright, indignant eyes.

"What is the matter, my child?" he asked.

"I am only angry," said Erica, rather breathlessly; "hurt and angry
because one of your bigots has been rude to me."

"Come in and tell me all about it," said Charles Osmond; and there
was something so irresistible in his manner that Erica at once
allowed herself to be led into one of the tall, old-fashioned
houses, and taken into a comfortable and roomy study, the nicest
room she had ever been in. It was not luxurious; indeed the Turkey
carpet was shabby and the furniture well worn, but it was
home-like, and warm and cheerful, evidently a room which was dear
to its owner. Charles Osmond made her sit down in a capacious arm
chair close to the fire.

"Well, now, who was the bigot?" he said, in a voice that would have
won the confidence of a flint.