"It is not Harry," Betty explained, striving to hide her
embarrassment. "This is Leonard Clare, who lives with us."
"Then I do not know you so well as I thought," Miss Bartram said to
him; "it is the beginning of a new acquaintance, after all."
"There isn't no harm done," Leonard answered, and instantly feeling
the awkwardness of the words, blushed so painfully that Miss
Bartram felt the inadequacy of her social tact to relieve so
manifest a case of distress. But she did, instinctively, what was
really best: she gave Leonard the check for her trunk, divided her
satchels with Betty, and walked to the carriage.
He did not sing, as he drove homewards down the valley. Seated on
the trunk, in front, he quietly governed the horses, while the two
girls, on the seat behind him, talked constantly and gaily. Only
the rich, steady tones of Miss Bartram's voice WOULD make their
way into his ears, and every light, careless sentence printed
itself upon his memory. They came to him as if from some
inaccessible planet. Poor fellow! he was not the first to
feel "the desire of the moth for the star.
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