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"No, madam."

"What, a leather-curtained spring-wagon?"

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

"Why, what does all this mean?" asked Miss Harper amid her nieces' cries.

"Such as which?" asked the Yankee, with a twinkle. "There were two kinds."

Unluckily she retorted with some playful parry that just lacked the saving quality of true resentment. How I rejoined would be small profit to tell. I had a fearful sense of falling; first like a wounded squirrel, dropping in fierce amazement, catching, holding on for a panting moment, then dropping, catching and dropping again, down from the top of the great tree where I had so lately sat scolding all the forest; and then, later, with an appalling passivity. And at every fresh exchange of words, while she laughed and fended, and fended and laughed, along with this passivity came a yet more appalling perversity; a passivity and perversity as of delirium, and as horrid to her as to me, though I little thought so then.

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