thirst.

"I should like a glass of your lemonade," I answered, bravely laying
down the only piece of money I possessed.

Her stern lips parted in a smile, and my courage came back cautiously,
that is to say, by degrees. She filled a glass for me, and as I gulped
it down I could almost detect the flavor of lemon and sugar.

"It is very good," I volunteered, passing back the glass. I held out
my hand, smiling.

"There isn't any change," coolly.

I flushed painfully. It was fully four miles to Newspaper Row. I was
conscious of a sullen pride. Presently the object of my errand
returned. Somewhat down the path I saw a gentleman reclining in a
canvas swing.

"Is that Mr. Wentworth?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you wish to speak to him? Uncle Bob, here is a gentleman who
desires to speak to you."

I approached. "Mr. Wentworth," I began, cracking the straw in my hat,
"my name is John Winthrop. I am a reporter. I have called to see if
it is true that you have declined the Italian portfolio."

"It is true," he replied kindly. "There are any number of reasons for
my declining it, but I cannot make them public. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir; thank you;" and I backed away.

"Are you a reporter?" asked the girl, as I was about to pass by her.

"Yes, I am."

"Do you draw pictures?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you write novels?"

"No," with a nervous laugh.

There is nothing like the process of interrogation to make one person
lose interest in another.

"Oh; I thought perhaps you did," she said, and turned her back to me.

I passed through the darkened halls of the house and into the street.

I never expected to see her again, but it was otherwise ordained. We
came together three years later at Block Island. She was eighteen now,
gathering the rosy flowers of her first season. She remembered the
incident in the garden, and we laughed over it. A few dances, two or
three evenings on the verandas, watching the sea, moon-lit, as it
sprawled among the rocks below us, and the even tenor of my way ceased
to be. I appreciated how far she was above me; so I worshipped her
silently and from afar. I told her my ambitions, confidences so
welcome to feminine ears, and she rewarded me with a small exchange.
She, too, was an orphan, and lived with her uncle, a rich banker, who,
as a diversion, consented to represent his country at foreign courts.
Her given name was Phyllis. I had seen the name a thousand times in
print; t