call, to put it mildly. It would be skating on terribly thin ice
--a little thinner, perhaps, than a man ever skated on before.

If he could but hit on some pretext, it scarcely mattered how thin,--
for of course it would not be intended to deceive her,--the interview
possibly could be managed. As he reflected, his eyes fell on a large
volume, purchased in a fit of extravagance, which lay on his table. It
was a profusely illustrated work on pottery, intended for the victims of
the fashionable craze on that subject, which at the date of these events
had but recently reached the United States. His face lighted up with
a sudden inspiration, and taking a pen he wrote the following note to
Maud, dating it the next day:--

Miss Elliott:

Our conversation last evening on the subject of old china
has suggested to me that you might be interested in looking
over the illustrations in the volume which I take the
liberty of sending with this. If you will be at home this
evening, I shall be pleased to call and learn your
impression.

Arthur Burton.

The next morning he sent this note and the book to Maud, and that
evening called upon her. To say that he did not twist his mustache
rather nervously as he stood upon the doorstep, waiting for the servant
to answer the bell, would be to give him credit for altogether more
nerve than he deserved. He was supported by the consciousness that he
was doing something rather heroic, but he very much wished it were done.
As he was shown into the parlor, Maud came forward to meet him. She wore
a costume which set off her fine figure to striking advantage, and he
was surprised to perceive that he had never before appreciated what
a handsome girl she was. It was strange that he should never have
particularly observed before what beautiful hands she had, and what
a dazzling fairness of complexion was the complement of her red-brown
hair. Could it be this stately maiden who had uttered those wild words
the night before? Could those breathless tones, that piteous
shame-facedness, have been hers? Surely he must be the victim of some
strange self-delusion. Only the deep blush that mantled her face as she
spoke his name, the quickness with which, after one swift glance, her
eyes avoided his, and the tremor of her hand as he touched it, fully
assured him that he had not dreamed the whole thing.

A shaded lamp was on the centre-table, where also Arthur's book on