When everything was in order, as she thought, she turned to go out, but he stopped her, saying almost fretfully, "You haven't picked up that picture that blew down." When she glanced all around the room, unable to discover it, he pointed to the hearth.

A photograph had fallen from the mantel, face downward.
"There! _Vesta's_ picture!" Mary picked it up and turned it over, exclaiming, "Why, no, it is Betty's!" "That's what I said," he answered, wholly unconscious of his slip of the tongue that had betrayed his secret.

Her back was turned towards him, so that he could not see the tears which sprang to her eyes.

If already it had come to this, that Betty was the Vesta of his dreams, then his renunciation must be an hundredfold harder than she had imagined.
With a pity so deep that she could not trust herself to speak, she busied herself in blowing some specks of dust from the mantel, as an excuse to keep her back turned.

She was relieved when the nurse came in with a glass of lemonade and she could slip out without his seeing her face.