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"Well,--yes,--he--he is,--with some."

I made no reply. He looked momentous, leaned to me sidewise with a hand horizontally across his mouth, and whispered a name. It was new to me. "Charlie Toliver?" I murmured, for we were at the tent door.

"Yes, a beautiful story is a thing Ned Ferry loves with a positive passion."

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

What do you say?--Yes, she might have spoken more wisely. Yet always there vibrated in her voice a wealth of thought, now bitter, now sweet, and often both at once, and a splendor of emotions, beyond the scope of all ordinary natures. How far beyond my own scope they were, even with my passions at flood-tide and turbid as a back-street overflow, I failed to ponder while I passed around the paling fence alone.

"'The beating of our own hearts

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