ness the rifling bee; he diffused it about him, as sweet plants shed their perfume. Does the nectarine love either the bee or bird it feeds? Is the sweetbriar enamoured of the air?
"Good night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful; but you are not mine. Good night, and God bless you!"
Thus I closed my musings. "Good night" left my lips in sound; I heard the two words spoken, and then I heard an echo—quite close.
"Good night, mademoiselle; or, rather, good evening—the sun is scarce set; I hope you slept well?"
I started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew the voice and speaker.
"Slept, monsieur! When? where?"
"You may well inquire when—where. It seems you turn day into night, and choose a desk for a pillow; rather hard lodging——?"
"It was softened for me, monsieur, while I slept. That unseen, gift-bringing thing which haunts my desk, remembered me. No matter how I fell asleep; I awoke pillowed and covered."
"Did the shawls keep you warm?"
"Very warm. Do you ask thanks for them?"
