t was nice, though, to meet Elsie on the stairs. I dare say you have
not forgotten how frequently, with an Elsie in the house, or any one
like her, young people are apt to meet on the stairs, particularly at
the dusky corner where the grandfather's clock is--you remember the
place, just where you cannot be seen, either from above or below.

Of course, Elsie was cross with me, and said that she would go back to
Nance's if I did not behave--that I ought to be thinking of other
things, which was true enough. But, for all that, she did not alter
her times of coming and going up and down the stairs, and she knew I
had a watch. Ah, well, such days pass all too soon! But they are good
while they last. And now, when I lie awake, I like to think it all
over, taking every single time by itself. We were very young and very
innocent then. We did not know what was the matter with us. As for
Elsie, she would have boxed my ears if I had dared to tell her that I
was in love with her; and I would have blushed to say the word.

She was my comrade, my friend, especially my sister--which is always a
good lead with a nice girl. At least, I have found it so. Girls--the
nice ones, I mean--are always longing to be somebody's sister--that is,
if they have no brothers of their own. Then they know more about it,
and are not nearly so keen. Actual brothers and sisters clout each
other and fight like fun; but the kind of brother you can be to a nice
girl sends poetry and flowers to his sister, and it is all right.

They drop the brothering after a bit, though. At least, that has been
my experience--when, as it were, fraternity has served its purpose.
Then I used to crib poems out of Keats and Byron and L.E.L., and change
them about a bit to fit the "dear sister" dodge. And it worked first
rate. Nobody ever found me out. And they asked no questions, because
it was all so dreadful mysterious and romantic, and made their little
hearts go pit-a-pat to have such a poetic brother. I was glad they did
not ask me what I meant, because I never knew in the least myself.

However, this by the way of it.

It was first class to have Elsie right in the house, and a whole
shelf-full of poetry down in the parlour cupboard, which father had
taken over as part payment for a bad debt. The debt must have been a
pretty bad one indeed for father to do such a thing. I think he meant
some day to give them to the village library at Breckonside, but al