s Hobson. I'm locked in the donjon tower. Father always
locks me here when there's a young man about. It's a horrid,
uncomfortable place. Won't you hurry and go?

Yours respectfully,

A. HOBSON.

I knew it was easy. I swung myself aloft on the spikes and stones
leading to the donjon window. When I was high enough I gazed in, my chin
about even with the sill. And there I saw the prettiest girl I ever
beheld, gazing down at a book tranquilly, as though gentlemanly rescuers
were common as toads around that tower. She wore something soft and
golden; her hair was night-black, and her eyes were that peculiar shade
of gray that--but what's the use?

"Pardon," I said, holding on with my right hand, lifting my hat with my
left. "Pardon, am I addressing Miss Annie Hobson?"

"You are not," she replied, only half looking up. "You are addressing
Miss Anita Hobson. Calling me Annie is another little habit father ought
to break himself of." She went on reading.

"Is that a very interesting book?" I asked, because I didn't like to go
without saying something more.

"It isn't!" She arose suddenly and hurled the book into a corner. "It's
Anthony Hope--and if there's anything I hate it's him. Father always
gives me _Prisoner of Zenda_ and _Ivanhoe_ to read when he locks me into
this donjon. Says I ought to read up on the situation. Do you think so?"

"There are some other books in the library," I suggested. "Bernard Shaw
and Kipling, you know. I'll run over and get you one."

"That's fine--but no!" she besought, reaching out her hand to detain me.
"No, don't go! If you went away you'd never come back. They never do."

"Who never do?"

"The young men. The very instant father sees one coming he pops me in
the tower and turns the key. You see," she explained, "when I was in
Italy I was engaged to a duke--he was a silly little thing and I was
glad when he turned out bogus. But father took the deception awfully to
heart and swore I should never be married for my money. Yet I don't see
what else a young girl can expect," she added quite simply.

I could have mentioned several hundred things.

"He has no right!" I said sternly. "It's barbarous for him to treat a
girl that way--especially his daughter."

"Hush!" she said. "Dad's a good sort. But you can't measure him by other
people's standards. And yet--oh, it's maddening, this life! Day after
day--loneliness. Nothing but stone walls and rusty armor and books.
We're rich, but wh