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A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

She backed half a step, and quite needlessly I let it go. Then she bade me not forget I had promised her the words of a certain song. "Want them? Indeed, yes! Did you not say it was an unpublished song written by a messmate of yours?--oh, Mr. Smith! I see why you stammer! You said 'a member of your mess'! oh!--oh!--oh!--you wrote it, yourself! And you wrote it to-day! That explains--" She drew an awesome breath, rose to her toes and knit her knuckles under her throat.

Breathe, O! breathe to me, as these love-languid skies To yon twilight star breathe, Return, return!

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

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