ooked at the tree before him, and mechanically
transferred it to the paper, he puffed and meditated.

He saw that Hope Wayne was constantly with other people, and yet he felt
that she was a woman who would naturally like her own society. He also
saw that there was no person then at Saratoga in whom she had such an
interest that she would prefer him to her own society.

And yet she was always seeking the distraction of other people.

Puff--puff--puff.

Then there was something that made the society of her own thoughts
unpleasant--almost intolerable.

Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a
false line he had drawn.

What is that something--or some-bod-y?

He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time.

As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of the
hotel.

"Have you been successful?" asked she, dawning upon him.

"You shall judge."

He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump.

"Good; but a little careless," she said.

"Do you draw, Miss Wayne?"

A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remembered where she
had last heard those words. She shrank a little, almost imperceptibly, as
if her eyes had been suddenly dazzled. Then a little more distantly--not
much more, but Arthur had remarked every thing--she said:

"Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening."

"Stop, please, Miss Wayne!" exclaimed Arthur, as he saw that she was
going. She turned and smiled--a smile that seemed to him like starlight,
it was so clear and cool and dim.

"I have drawn this for you, Miss Wayne."

She bent and took the sketch which he drew from his port-folio.

"It is Manfred in the Coliseum," said he.

She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her in
astonishment as the blood slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamed
back again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope Wayne
looked from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye to
discover if he knew what he was doing. Arthur was sincerely unconscious.

Hope Wayne dropped the paper almost involuntarily. It floated into the
road.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Merlin," said she, making a step to recover it.

He was before her, and handed it to her again.

"Thank you," said she, quietly, and went in.

It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to a
meditation. The result of it was clear enough.

"That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hop