made no difference, and she ought not to say it--that she was not in
the habit of intruding upon gentlemen who plainly gave her to understand
that her company was not desirable. She did not know why she said
this--of course it could make no difference to anybody who didn't, of
course, care--but she only wanted to say that she only came here
because her dear friend, her adopted mother,--and a better woman never
breathed,--had come, and had asked her to stay. Of course, Mrs. Sol was
an intruder herself--Mr. Sol was an intruder--they were all intruders:
she only wondered that Mr. Pinkney had borne with them so long. She knew
it was an awful thing to be here, taking care of a poor--poor, helpless
woman; but perhaps Mr. Rand's BROTHER might forgive them, if he
couldn't. But no matter, she would go--Mr. Sol would go--ALL would go;
and then, perhaps, Mr, Rand--

She stopped breathless; she stopped with the corner of her apron against
her tearful hazel eyes; she stopped with--what was more remarkable than
all--Rand's arm actually around her waist, and his astonished, alarmed
face within a few inches of her own.

"Why, Miss Euphemia, Phemie, my dear girl! I never meant anything like
THAT," said Rand earnestly. "I really didn't now! Come now!"

"You never once spoke to me when I sat down," said Miss Euphemia, feebly
endeavoring to withdraw from Rand's grasp.

"I really didn't! Oh, come now, look here! I didn't! Don't! There's a
dear--THERE!"

This last conclusive exposition was a kiss. Miss Euphemia was not quick
enough to release herself from his arms. He anticipated that act a full