any with _any_ gentleman. He must he a Boston man--he was
probably very literary--Boston men always were.

Besides, if he was at all fit for her, he must certainly be very
handsome.

Suddenly Miss Wyett became the rage among the Bowerton girls.
Blushingly and gushingly they told her of their own loves, and they
showed her their lovers, or pictures of those gentlemen.

Miss Wyett listened, smiled and sympathized, but when they sat silently
expectant of similar confidences, they were disappointed, and when they
endeavored to learn even the slightest particular of Helen Wyett's love,
she changed the subject of conversation so quickly and decidedly that
they had not the courage to renew the attempt.

But while most Bowertonians despaired of learning much more about the
Wyetts, and especially about Helen's lover, there was one who had
resolved not only to know the favored man, but to do him some frightful
injury, and that was little Guzzy.

Though Guzzy's frame was small, his soul was immense, and Helen's
failure to comprehend Guzzy's greatness when he laid it all at her feet
had made Guzzy extremely bilious and gloomy.

Many a night, when Guzzy's soul and body should have been taking their
rest, they roamed in company up and down the quiet street on which the
Wyetts' cottage was located, and Guzzy's eyes, instead of being fixed on
sweet pictures in dreamland, gazed vigilantly in the direction of Mrs.
Wyett's gate.

He did not meditate inflicting personal violence on the hated wretch who
had snatched away Helen from his hopes--no, personal violence could
produce suffering but feeble compared with that under which the victim
would writhe as Guzzy poured forth the torrent of scornful invective
which he had compiled from the memories of his bilious brain and the
pages of his "Webster Unabridged."

At length there came a time when most men would have despaired.

Love is warm, but what warmth is proof against the chilling blasts and
pelting rains of the equinoctial storm?

But then it was that the fervor of little Guzzy's soul showed itself;
for, wrapped in the folds of a waterproof overcoat, he paced his
accustomed beat with the calmness of a faithful policeman.

And he had his reward.

As one night he stood unseen against the black background of a high
wall, opposite the residence of Mrs. Wyett, he heard the gate--_her_
gate--creak on its hinges.

It could be no ordinary visitor, for it was after nine o'clock--i