head about. She still had the little round curls stuck on to her cheeks, and Elsie wondered anew what kept them in their places.
By and by the object of Imogen's visit came out. She had called to say good-by. The Clark family were all going back to Jacksonville to live.
"Did you ever see the Brigand again?" asked Clover, who had never forgotten that eventful tale told in the parlor.
"Yes," replied Imogen, "several times. And I get letters from him quite often. He writes beautiful letters. I wish I had one with me, so that I could read you a little bit. You would enjoy it, I know. Let me see—perhaps I have."
And she put her hand into her pocket. Sure enough there was a letter. Clover couldn't help suspecting that Imogen knew it all the time.
The Brigand seemed to write a bold, black hand, and his note-paper and envelope was just like anybody's else. But perhaps his band had surprised a pedlar with a box of stationery.
"Let me see," said Imogen, running her eye down the page. "'Adored Imogen'—that wouldn't interest you—hm, hm, hm—ah, here's
