very near losing
Mr. Benton's friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.

"I didn't think of that," he said.

"It's taken away my appetite, and I haven't been able to sleep nights,"
continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. "I feel just as Howard
Courtenay did in the great story that's coming out in the Weekly Budget.
You've read it, haven't you?"

"I don't think I have," said Paul.

"Then you ought to. It's tiptop. It's rather curious too that the lady
looks just as Miranda does, in the same story."

"How is that?"

"Wait a minute, and I'll read the description."

Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket,--the last copy of the Weekly
Budget,--and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to
his amused auditor.

"Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and
stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which
revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant
tresses,--there, the rest is torn off," said Mr. Benton, in a tone of
vexation.

"She is tall, then?" said Paul.

"Yes, just like Miranda."

"Then," said our hero, in some hesitation, "I should think she would not
be very well suited to you."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Benton, quickly.

"Because," said Paul, "you're rather short, you know."

"I'm about the medium height," said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his
toes as he spoke.

"Not quite," said Paul, trying not to laugh.

"I'm as tall as Mr. Smith," resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned
Paul that this was a forbidden subject. "But you don't ask me who she
is."

"I didn't know as you would be willing to tell."

"I shan't tell any one but you. It's Miss Hawkins,--firm of Hawkins &
Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul,"
here he clutched our hero's arm convulsively, "I've made a declaration
of my love, and--and----"

"Well?"

"She has answered my letter."

"Has she?" asked Paul with some curiosity, "What did she say?"

"She has written me to be under her window this evening."

"Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?"

"Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, 'be under my
window.'"

"Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such
things."

"Of course not, Paul," said Mr. Benton; "you're only a boy, you know."

"Are you going to be under her window, Nich,--I mean Mr. Benton?"

"Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointm