ent? No earthly power
could prevent my doing it."

"Then I had better leave you," said Paul, making a movement to go.

"No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel--a little
agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love," added Mr.
Benton, complacently.

"Well," said Paul, "I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for
they will wonder at home what has become of me."

"All right."

"Are we anywhere near the house?"

"Yes, it's only in the next street," said Mr. Benton, "O, Paul, how my
heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!"

Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish
bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.

"You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul," said Mr.
Benton; "when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night,
and I will stand by you."

Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely
to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best
not to say so.

By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with
Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.

"That's the house," said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.

"Is it?"

"Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her
chamber."

"How do you know?"

"She told me in the letter."

"And where are you to stand?"

"Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time."

At that moment the city clock struck nine.

Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position
beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping
voice, as preconcerted between them--

"Ever of thee,
I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming."

The song was destined never to be finished.

From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He
could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself.
She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with
well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.

The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all
sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag,
while his coat suffered severely from the shower.

His tuneful accents died away in dismay.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking
himself like a dog, "who did that?"

There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the wind