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"Good-bye, Smith." I have never liked my last name, but at that moment the boys contrived to put a kindness of tone into it which made it

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

Turn away thine eyes, maiden passing fair. O maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes!

"Well, I reckon I'll stop all night." I began to move on. His eyes followed greedily.

Not because of this speech, but of a soft rubbing sound on the window-sill behind me, my heart turned cold. Yet there I saw a most welcome sight. Against the outer edge of the sill an unseen hand was moving a forked stick to and fro. The tip of one of its tines was slit, in the slit was a white paper, and in the fork hung the bridle of my horse. I glided to the window. But there bethinking me how many a man had put his head out at just such a place and never got it back, I made a long sidewise reach, secured the paper, and read it.

"His name is Oliver."

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