h a low bow and a deep blush he took the
chair she placed for him.

With natural politeness she closed her book and addressed herself to
entertaining him.

"I have heard that your mother is an invalid; I hope she is better."

"I thank you--yes, ma'am--miss," stammered Traverse, in painful
embarrassment. Understanding the _mauvaise honte_ of the bashful boy,
and seeing that her efforts to entertain only troubled him, she placed
the newspapers on the table before him, saying:

"Here are the morning journals, if you would like to look over them, Mr.
Rocke," and then she resumed her book.

"I thank you, miss," replied the youth, taking up a paper, more for the
purpose of covering up his embarrassment than for any other.

Mr. Rocke! Traverse was seventeen years of age, and had never been
called Mr. Rocke before. This young girl was the very first to
compliment him with the manly title, and he felt a boyish gratitude to
her and a harmless wish that his well-brushed Sunday suit of black was
not quite so rusty and threadbare, tempered by an innocent exultation in
the thought that no gentleman in the land could exhibit fresher linen,
brighter shoes or cleaner hands than himself.

But not many seconds were spent in such egotism. He stole a glance at
his lovely companion sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace--he
was glad to see that she was already deeply engaged in reading, for it
enabled him to observe her without embarrassment or offense. He had
scarcely dared to look at her before, and had no distinct idea of her
beauty.

There has been for him only a vague, dazzling vision of a golden-haired
girl in floating white raiment, wafting the fragrance of violets as she
moved, and with a voice sweeter than the notes of the cushat dove as she
spoke.

Now he saw that the golden hair flowed in ringlets around a fair,
roseate face, soft and bright with feeling and intelligence. As her
dark-blue eyes followed the page, a smile intense with meaning deepened
the expression of her countenance. That intense smile--it was like her
father's, only lovelier--more heavenly.

That intense smile--it had, even on the old doctor's face, an
inexpressible charm for Traverse--but on the lovely young face of his
daughter it exercised an ineffable fascination. So earnest and so
unconscious became the gaze of poor Traverse that he was only brought to
a sense of propriety by the opening of the door and the entrance of the
doctor, who exc