kisses him—once. And he snatches her in his embrace, and kisses her, not once but many times, on lip and brow and shoulder, with a strength that seems to crush her. Then he sets her down abruptly, and strides away into the night, and the girl stands breathless, panting, with a deadly pallor upon her face, a wild agony in her eyes. "My love!" . . . she says, "my love." . . . She puts her hand suddenly to her heart, as though a knife had struck her newly; then she turns and steps over the threshold.
CHAPTER XVIII.
And mine that I was proud on; mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine
Valuing of her; why she—oh! she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again."
"Most extraordinary!" says Laura Fielding, resting her chin on her hands, and her elbows on her desk, "He actually left his hat behind!"
"Does any one know what became of it!" asks Kate Lishaw.
"It was put in a bandbox," says Dora, "and carried to the parsonage by a maid-servant, who made him a curtsey and said, 'I've brought you something as you dropped among our young ladies,sir!'"
"Nonsense!" says Kate; "but I must confess I am disappointed in him! After all he proved a very little more valiant than Mr. Russell's friend! He is very nice, though," she adds, "and he dances splendidly."
"He is magnificent," says Belle. "Did you ever see such shoulders, or such a head? And then his style—unimpeachable!"
"His moustache is———," says Laura; "it has that long, bold
