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

"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and rose and looked for me.

"About an hour and a quarter."

"Yes." She stooped low under the interlacing boughs and plunged with me into the double darkness.

"Yes,"--she put away gaiety--"your orders are plain; and they're as cruel as they are plain!"

She threw my hand from her. "I know I do! I'm so unworthy to do it that I wouldn't have believed I could. You thought I was Charlotte Oliver--Heavens! boy, if you should breathe the atmosphere Charlotte Oliver has to live in! But understand again, for your soul's comfort, you haven't tempted me. Go, if you must; go, take your chances; and if you're spared ever to see your dear, dear little mother--"

"Good-morning," he responded, tardily and grimly. "Well, you air in a hurry."

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