The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Be kind to her.
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