e cried for joy. She had
known as little of her once lover's heart as he of hers. She only knew
that he stopped coming to see her when he fell, and had not renewed his
visits now that he was risen again. If she had not been charmingly ruddy
with the brisk air and exercise, she would have betrayed her pleasure at
Bill's jealousy with a fine blush.

The sense of recovered power made her wish to use it again. She must tease
him a little. So she continued, as they skated on in good rhythm,--

"Mother and I wouldn't know what to do without Mr. Wade. We like him _so_
much,"--said ardently.

What Bill feared was true, then, he thought. Wade, noble fellow, worthy to
win any woman's heart, had fascinated his landlady's daughter.

"I don't wonder you like him," said he. "He deserves it."

Belle was touched by her old lover's forlorn tone.

"He does indeed," she said. "He has helped and taught us all so much. He
has taken such good care of Perry. And then"--here she gave her companion
a little look and a little smile--"he speaks so kindly of you, Mr.
Tarbox."

Smile, look, and words electrified Bill. He gave such a spring on his
skates that he shot far ahead of the lady. He brought himself back with a
sharp turn.

"He has done kinder than he can speak," says Bill. "He has made a man of
me again, Miss Belle."

"I know it. It makes me very happy to hear you able to say so of
yourself." She spoke gravely.

"Very happy"--about anything that concerned him? Bill had to work off his
overjoy at this by an exuberant flourish. He whisked about Belle,--outer
edge backward. She stopped to admire. He finished by describing on the
virgin ice, before her, the letters B.P., in his neatest style of
podography,--easy letters to make, luckily.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Belle. "What are those letters? Oh! B.P.! What do
they stand for?"

"Guess!"

"I'm so dull," said she, looking bright as a diamond. "Let me think! B.P.?
British Poets, perhaps."

"Try nearer home!"

"What are you likely to be thinking of that begins with B.P.?--Oh, I know!
Boiler Plates!"

She looked at him,--innocent as a lamb. Bill looked at her, delighted with
her little coquetry. A woman without coquetry is insipid as a rose without
scent, as Champagne without bubbles, or as corned beef without mustard.

"It's something I'm thinking of most of the time," says he; "but I hope
it's softer than Boiler Plates. B.P. stands for Miss Isabella Purtett."

"Oh!" says B