re, do not we?"

"Is that true, Nancy?" he says, eagerly. "I have been bothering my head
rather with the notion that I was but poor company for a little young
thing like you; that you must be wearying for some of your own friends."

"I never had a friend," reply I, "_never_--that is--except _you_! The
boys"--(with a little stealing smile)--"always used to call you my
friend--always from the first, from the days I used to take you out
walking, and keep wishing that you were my father, and be rather hurt
because I never could get you to echo the wish."

"And you are not much disappointed _really_?" he says, with a wistful
persistence, as if he but half believed the words my lips made. "If you
are, mind you tell me, child--tell me every thing that vexes
you--_always_!"

"I will tell you every thing that happens to me, bad and good," reply I,
quite gayly, "and all the unlucky things I say--there, that is a large
promise, I can tell you!"

I am no longer dusty and grimy; quite spick and span, on the contrary;
so freshly and prettily dressed, indeed, that the thought _will_ occur
to me that it is a pity there are not more people to see me. However, no
doubt some one will turn up by-and-by. The weather is serenely, evenly
fine. It seems as if no rain _could_ come from such a high blue sky. It
is late afternoon or early evening. Since dinner is over--dinner at the
godless hour of half-past four--I suppose we must call it evening. Sir
Roger and I are driving out in an open carriage beyond the town, across
the Elbe, up the shady road to Weisserhoisch. The calm of coming night
is falling with silky softness upon every thing. The acacias stand on
each side of the highway, with the delicate abundance of their airy
flowers, faintly yet most definitely sweet on the evening air.

I look up and see the crowded blooms drooping in pensive beauty above my
head. The guelder-rose's summer snow-balls, and the mock-orange with its
penetrating odor, whiten the still gardens as we pass. The billowy
meadow-grass, the tall red sorrel, the untidy, ragged robin, all the
yearly-recurring May miracles! What can I say, O my friends, to set them
fairly before you?

Under the trees the townsfolk are walking, chatting low and friendly. A
soldier has his arm round a fat-faced Maedchen's waist, an attention
which she takes with the stolidity engendered by long habit. Dear,
willing, panting dogs, are laboriously dragging the washer-women's
little car