till. He took it up at last and
dropped it scientifically in the water.

"It's a bad business," he mused, "and hanging, drawing, and quartering
would be too good for me. But what the dickens is a fellow to do? And
then she is so fond of me, too--poor little girl!"

He laid the fishing-rod down again, drew from an inner pocket a
note-book and pencil. From between the leaves he drew out a sheet of
pink-tinted, gilt-edged note paper, and, using the note-book for a desk,
began to write. It was a letter, evidently; and after he wrote the first
line, he paused, and looked at it with an odd smile. The line was,
"Angel of my Dreams."

"I think she will like the style of that," he mused; "it's Frenchified
and sentimental, and she rather affects that sort of thing. Poor child!
I don't see how I ever got to be so fond of her."

Mr. Stanford went on with his letter. It was in French, and he wrote
very slowly and thoughtfully. He filled the four sides, ending with
"Wholly thine, Reginald Stanford." Carefully he re-read, made some
erasures, folded, and put it in an envelope. As he sealed the envelope,
a big dog came bounding down the bank, and poked its cold, black nose
inquisitively in his face.

"Ah! Tiger, _mein Herr_, how are you? Where is your master?"

"Here," said Doctor Frank. "Don't let me intrude. Write the address, by
all means."

"As if I would put you _au fait_ of my love letters," said Mr. Stanford,
coolly putting the letter in his note-book, and the note-book in his
pocket. "I thought you were off to-day?"

"No, to-morrow. I must be up and doing now; I am about tired of St.
Croix and nothing to do."

"Are you ever coming back!"

"Certainly. I shall come back on the fourth of June, Heaven willing, to
see you made the happiest man in creation."

"Have a cigar?" said Mr. Stanford, presenting his cigar-case. "I can
recommend them. You would be the happiest man in creation in my place,
wouldn't you?"

"Most decidedly. But I wasn't born, like some men I know of, with a
silver spoon in my mouth. Beautiful wives drop into some men's arms,
ripe and ready, but I am not one of them."

"Oh, don't despond! Your turn may come yet!"

"I don't despond--I leave that to--but comparisons are odious."

"Go on."

"To Miss Rose Danton. She is pining on the stem, at the near approach of
matrimony, and growing as pale as spirit. What is the matter with her?"

"You ought to know best. You're a doctor."

"But love-sickne