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"Madam,"--my cap went higher, my head lower--"I never bet."

Well, he thought a girl might be prettiest at eighteen and handsomest much later. And again I said to myself, "Charlotte Oliver!" But when I looked searchingly into his eyes their manly sweetness so abashed me that I dropped my glance and felt him looking at me. I remembered my fable and flinched. "Isn't your name--" I cried, and choked, and when I would have said Ferry, another word slipped out instead. He did not hear it plainly:

"No," he said, but Ned Ferry had lately restored to him, by proxy, some lost letters, with an invitation to come and see him.

"He's on my private horse!" I retorted.

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