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"No, sir."

I thought I did until I glanced at the superscription: Miss Coralie Rothvelt.

"Wait a moment," she murmured, and watched the promenading pair turn back. Then she asked if I had read my mother's letter. I said I had. And then, very pensively, with head bent and eyes once more down, she inquired if I liked to get letters. Which led, quite accidentally, to my asking leave to write to her.

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

"One too modest," I murmured, "to know her own portrait." I clutched the braid emotionally and let it go intending to retake it; but she dropped it behind her and said I was too imaginative to be safe.

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