fine, clear evening, Miss Conway," he said; and if the Weather
Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would
have hoisted the square white signal and nailed it to the mast.

"To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan," said Miss
Conway, with a sigh.

Mr. Donovan in his heart cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It
should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss
Conway.

"I hope none of your relatives--I hope you haven't sustained a loss?"
ventured Mr. Donovan.

"Death has claimed," said Miss Conway, hesitating--"not a relative, but
one who--but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan."

"Intrude?" protested Mr. Donovan. "Why, say, Miss Conway, I'd be
delighted, that is, I'd be sorry--I mean I'm sure nobody could
sympathize with you truer than I would."

Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her
expression in repose.

"'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the
laugh,'" she quoted.

"I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances
in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly."

He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.

"It's tough to be alone in New York--that's a cinch," said Mr. Donovan.
"But, say--whenever this little old town does loosen up and get
friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park,
Miss Conway--don't you think it might chase away some of your
mullygrubs? And if you'd allow me--"

"Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if you
think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be
anyways agreeable to you."

Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where
the elect once took the air, they strolled and found a quiet bench.

There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old
age: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;
old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.

"He was my fiance," confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. "We
were going to be married next spring. I don't want you to think that I
am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an
estate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I
never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and
once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure