wished to make friends with the doe--as you would with poor Sir Isaac, if
you would but try and like me--a little, only a very little, Mr.
Fairthorn."

FAIRTHORN.--"Don't!"

SOPHY.--"Don't what? I am so sorry to see I have annoyed you somehow.
You have not been the same person to me the last two or three days. Tell
me what I have done wrong; scold me, but make it up."

FAIRTHORN.--"Don't holdout your hand to me! Don't be smiling in my face!
I don't choose it! Get out of my sight! You are standing between me and
the old house--robbing me even of my last looks at the home which you--"

SOPHY.--"Which I--what?"

FAIRTHORN.--"Don't, I say, don't--don't tempt me. You had better not ask
questions--that's all. I shall tell you the truth; I know I shall; my
tongue is itching to tell it. Please to walk on."

Despite the grotesque manner and astounding rudeness of the flute-player,
his distress of mind was so evident--there was something so genuine and
earnest at the bottom of his ludicrous anger--that Sopby began to feel a
vague presentiment of evil. That she was the mysterious cause of some
great suffering to this strange enemy, whom she had unconsciously
provoked, was clear; and she said, therefore, with more gravity than she
had before evinced:

"Mr. Fairthorn, tell me how I have incurred your displeasure, I entreat
you to do so; no matter how painful the truth may be, it is due to us