WHAT A PRETTY LITTLE
HAND!
BY
MARY
E. CLARKE.
I am not a bashful man. Generally speaking, I am fully as confident and forward as most of my sex. I dress well, dance well, sing tolerably; I don’t tread on ladies’ dresses, when I make my bow; and I have not the trick of coloring to the roots of my hair, when I am spoken to. Yet, there was one period of my life, when all my merits seemed to my own eyes insignificant, and I felt very modest, not to say bashful. It was when I was in love. Then, I sometimes did not know where to put my hands and feet. Did I mention that in the said hands and feet consists my greatest beauty? They are both small.
Three years ago, I fell in love. I did not walk into it quietly, weighing my idol’s perfections against her defects. I fell in, head and ears, two seconds after the introduction.
“Mr. Haynes, Miss Arnold,” said a mutual friend, and lo! I was desperately in love. She was a little fairy-like figure, with long, brown curls floating over a snowy neck and shoulders, and falling down on the waist of an enchanting sky-blue dress. Her large, dark blue eyes were full of saucy light, yet, oh! how tender and lov- ing they could look. (This I found out later.) Of all the provoking, tantalizing little coquettes, that ever teased the heart out of a poor mas, Susy Arnold was the most bewitching. I would pass an evening with her, and go home certain that one more interview would make me the hap- piest of men; but the next time I met her, a cool nod, and indifferent glance, threw down all my castles. She was very cautious. Not a word did she drop to make me believe that she loved me; and yet her hand woald linger in mine, her color rise if I looked my feelings, and her eyes droop, to be raised again in an instant, full of laughing defiance. She declared her intention to be an old maid most emphatically, and in the next sentence would add, “I never did love, but if I should take a fancy to anybody, I should love him like—like a house afire. Though,’ she would say, carelessly, “I never saw anybody yet worth settling my thoughts upon.” I tried in a thousand ways to make her betray some interest in myself. Propose outright, I eould not. She had a way, whenever I tried it, of looking in my face with an air of grave atten- tion, of profound interest, that was equivalent in effect, to knocking me down; it took all the reath out of me.
One evening, while there, I was seized with a violent headache. I told her I was subject to such attacks, and the gipsy, putting on a grave face, gave me a lecture on the subject of health, winding up with,
“The best thing you can do is to get a wife to take care of you, and to keep you from over study. I advise you to do it: if you can get anybody to have you.”
“Indeed,” I said, rather piqued, ‘there are only too many. I refrain from a selection for ear of breaking other hearts. How fond all the ladies are of me!’’ I added, conceitedly, “though can’t see that I am particularly fascinating.”
“Neither can I,” said Susy, with an air of perfect simplicity.
“Can’t you?” said I. ‘I hoped—hoped——” Yh! that dreadfully attentive face of hers. “That is, Miss Susy, I thought, perhaps—oh! ny head! my head!” and I buried my face in be cushion.
“Does it ache so very badly?’’ she asked, enderly, and she put her cool little hand in mong my ourls. I felt the thrill her fingers fave me, all the way to the toes of my boots. My head being really very painful, I was obliged © leave; but, all the way home, the soft, cool ouch of these little fingers lingered upon my row.
Soon after this, it became necessary, for me te leave the city on business. An offer of a lucra- jive partnership in the South in the office of a lawyer friend of mine, made me decide to extend my trip, and see how the ‘‘land lay.” One thing was certain, I could not leave home, for months, perhaps years, without some answer from Susy. Dressed in my most faultless costume, and full of hope, I went to Mr. Arnold's. Susy was in the parlor, at the piano, alone. She nodded gayly, as I came in; but continued her song. It was, “I’ve something sweet to tell you.”
At the words, “I love you! I adore you!” she gave me such a glance. I was ready to prostrate myself; but, sweeping back the curls with laughing defiance, she warbled, “But I’m talking in my sleep.”
