him her hand.

"Oh no; she has been taught better than that. But you don't tell me
how you are. I thought you were tired last night when I saw that you
had altogether given over dancing." And then he walked on beside
her, and the docile mare followed them like a dog.

"No, I was not tired; at least, not exactly," said Clara, blushing
again and again, being conscious that she blushed. "But--but--you
know it was the first ball I was ever at."

"That is just the reason why you should have enjoyed it the more,
instead of sitting down as you did, and being dull and unhappy. For
I know you were unhappy; I could see it."

"Was I?" said Clara, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes; and I'll tell you what. I could see more than that; it was I
that made you unhappy."

"You, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"Yes, I. You will not deny it, because you are so true. I asked you
to dance with me too often. And because you refused me, you did not
like to dance with any one else. I saw it all. Will you deny that it
was so?"

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" Poor girl! She did not know what to say; how
to shape her speech into indifference; how to assure him that he
made himself out to be of too much consequence by far; how to make