nes that came from feelings given to another. And as to Sally?
Well, for once, Greek met Greek; for although Sally, as we showed her,
was a girl of generous impulses, she was yet in no danger of immediate
translation on account of superhuman goodness. In short, Sally had made
up her mind that Moses should give her a chance to say that precious and
golden _No_, which should enable her to count him as one of her
captives,--and then he might go where he liked for all her.

So said the wicked elf, as she looked into her own great eyes in the
little square of mirror shaded by a misty asparagus bush; and to this
end there were various braidings and adornings of the lustrous black
hair, and coquettish earrings were mounted that hung glancing and
twinkling just by the smooth outline of her glowing cheek,--and then
Sally looked at herself in a friendly way of approbation, and nodded at
the bright dimpled shadow with a look of secret understanding. The real
Sally and the Sally of the looking-glass were on admirable terms with
each other, and both of one mind about the plan of campaign against the
common enemy. Sally thought of him as he stood kingly and triumphant on
the deck of his vessel, his great black eyes flashing confident glances
into hers, and she felt a rebellious rustle of all her plumage. "No,
sir," she said to herself, "you don't do it. You shall never find me
among your slaves,"--"that you know of," added a doubtful voice within
her. "Never to your knowledge," she said, as she turned away. "I wonder
if he will come here this evening," she said, as she began to work upon
a pillow-case,--one of a set which Mrs. Kittridge had confided to her
nimble fingers. The seam was long, straight, and monotonous, and Sally
was restless and fidgety; her thread would catch in knots, and when she
tried to loosen it, would break, and the needle had to be threaded over.
Somehow the work was terribly irksome to her, and the house looked so
still and dim and lonesome, and the tick-tock of the kitchen-clock was
insufferable, and Sally let her work fall in her lap and looked out of
the open window, far to the open ocean, where a fresh breeze was
blowing toward her, and her eyes grew deep and dreamy following the
gliding ship sails. Sally was getting romantic. Had she been reading
novels? Novels! What can a pretty woman find in a novel equal to the
romance that is all the while weaving and unweaving about her, and of
which no human foresight