she said, looking up at her husband.

"Well," he answered, with a tone that meant, well. "She's thorough-bred.
Democratic or not, I will always insist, blood tells. Look at her: no
one needs to ask _who_ she is. I'd take her on trust without a word."

"So, then, you are not her critic, but her admirer."

"Ah, my dear, criticism is lost in admiration, and I am glad to find it
so."

"And I. Willie saw with our eyes, as a boy; it is fortunate that we can
see with his eyes, as a man."

So, without any words spoken, after that night, both Mr. and Mrs. Surrey
took this young girl into their hearts as they hoped soon to take her
into their lives, and called her "daughter" in their thought, as a
pleasant preparation for the uttered word by and by.

Thus the weeks fled. No word had passed between these two to which the
world might not have listened. Whatever language their hearts and their
eyes spoke had not been interpreted by their lips. He had not yet
touched her hand save as it met his, gloved or formal, or as it rested
on his arm; and yet, as one walking through the dusk and stillness of a
summer night feels a flower or falling leaf brush his check, and starts,
shivering as from the touch of a disembodied soul, so this slight
outward touch thrilled his inmost being; this hand, meeting his for an
instant, shook his soul.

Indefinite and undefined,--there was no thought beyond the moment; no
wish to take this young girl into his arms and to call her "wife" had
shaped itself in his brain. It was enough for both that they were in one
another's presence, that they breathed the same air, that they could see
each other as they raised their eyes, and exchange a word, a look, a
smile. Whatever storm of emotion the future might hold for them was not
manifest in this sunny and delightful present.

Upon one subject alone did they disagree with feeling,--in other matters
their very dissimilarity proving an added charm. This was a curious
question to come between lovers. All his life Surrey had been a devotee
of his country and its flag. While he was a boy Kossuth had come to
these shores, and he yet remembered how he had cheered himself hoarse
with pride and delight, as the eloquent voice and impassioned lips of
the great Magyar sounded the praise of America, as the "refuge of the
oppressed and the hope of the world." He yet remembered how when the
hand, every gesture of which was instinct with power, was lifted to the
flag,--