taste—you should have seen her and heard her at home! She took so much interest. Every patch in your clothes made us sorry; it should have been a sister's work."
"That is what I never had—a sister," said I. "But since you say that I did not make you laugh"
"O, Mr. St. Ives! never!" she exclaimed. "Not for one moment. It was all too sad. To see a gentleman"
"In the clothes of a harlequin, and begging?" I suggested.
"To see a gentleman in distress, and nobly supporting it," she said.
"And do you not understand, my fair foe," said I, "that even if all were as you say—even if you had thought my travesty were becoming—I should be only the more anxious, for my sake, for my country's sake, and for the sake of your kindness, that you should see him whom you have helped as God meant him to be seen? that you should have something to remember him by at least more characteristic than a misfitting sulphur-yellow suit, and half a week's beard?"
"You think a great deal too much of clothes," she said, "I am not that kind of girl."
"And I'm afraid I am that kind of a man," said I. "But do not think of me too harshly for that. I talked just now of something to remember by. I have many of them myself, of these beautiful reminders, of these keepsakes, that I cannot be parted from until I lose memory and life. Many of them are great things, many of them are high virtues—charity, mercy, faith. But some of them are trivial enough. Miss Flora, do you remember the day that I first saw you, the day of the strong east wind? Miss Flora, shall I tell you what you wore?"
We had both risen to our feet, and she had her hand already on the door to go. Perhaps this attitude embol-
