May could not trust her voice to reply.

"He was at the fire."

"Was he?"

"I tell you he was," returned Hal, pettishly. "When I say he was, I do
not mean that he was not. I followed him after the fire."

"Did you?"

"Good heavens, you will drive me mad!" Hal sprang to his feet. "I
followed him I say--ay, to the death!"

Then ensued a rapid recital of all that had passed, Hal was excited
beyond endurance, every nerve was stretched to its utmost, and the
purple veins stood out boldly on his white forehead. He did not wait for
May to say a word, but abruptly ended his narrative with:

"Was not this a pretty way to reward him for saving the life of my
cousin--my sister. O, God, must the roar of that terrible whirlpool ring
in my ears forever?" He gazed a moment on May's countenance of
speechless sorrow, and rushed from the room.

For a long time Hal and May scarcely spoke to each other. He felt as
though he had wronged her, and was always restless in her society. He
would not bear to receive the thousand cousinly attentions which May had
always lavished on him, and which she now performed mechanically; he
hated to see the suppers by the corner of the grate, and after a few
evenings would not notice them; but above all he could not endure that