A change seemed to have come over others as well
as himself. Mrs. Prency greeted him more kindly than ever, but Eleanor
seemed different. She was not as merry, as defiant, or as sympathetic
as of old. Sometimes there was a suggestion of old times in her manner,
but suddenly the young woman would again become reserved and distant.
One evening, when she had begun to rally him about something, and
quickly lapsed into a different and languid manner, Bartram said,--
"Eleanor, nothing seems as it used to be between you and me. I wish I
knew what was wrong in me."
The girl suddenly interested herself in the contents of an antiquated
photograph album.
"I must have become dreadfully uninteresting," he continued, "if you
prefer the faces in that album, of which I've heard you make fun time
and again. Won't you tell me what it is? Don't be afraid to talk
plainly: I can stand anything--from you."
"Oh, nothing," said Eleanor, continuing to pretend interest in the
pictures.
"'Nothing' said in that tone always means something--and a great deal
of it. Have I said or done anything to offend you?"
"No," said Eleanor, with a sigh, closing the book and folding her
hands, "only--I didn't suppose you ever could become a prosy, poky old
church-member."
The reply was a laugh, so merry, hearty, and long that Eleanor looked
indignant, until she saw a roguish twinkle in Bartram's eyes; then she
blushed and looked confused.
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