were likely to be settled
satisfactorily, and feeling no interest in details, dozed off again. The
next thing he knew the gas was lit, and Mr. Morrison was saying, "Why,
how are you, Carter? Delighted to see you. Where did you come from? Let
me present you to Mrs. Morrison," and Miss Sherwin, with a becoming
color in her face, was explaining that Mr. Carter was an old friend, and
they were all talking and laughing at once in the absurd way people have
sometimes, so that it was next to impossible to understand anything.

When Mr. Carter left, after declining the Morrisons' invitation to spend
the evening, Peterkin followed him out on the porch to get a little air.
The Spectacle Man, coming in from a walk, found him sitting there,
looking like some dignified old Quaker in his gray coat and white
necktie.

Mrs. Morrison slipped her hand into Miss Sherwin's as they went
upstairs. "Am I right in what I guess?" she whispered.

"How could you know it?" Lillian asked, with an answering clasp.

"My dear, if you could see your face!--but I felt certain he would
come!"

"O Miss Sherwin!" called Mr. Morrison, who, with Frances, had lingered
at the door, "your acquaintance with Mr. Carter partly explains
something that puzzled me. I was struck with the resemblance between him
and the young farmer in the first illustration in your story. Did he sit
for the portrait?"

"Jack, you must be dreaming!" his wife exclaimed.

"I don't understand at all," Lillian said, in great confusion.

"Could it possibly have been accidental?" A mischievous light shone in
Mr. Morrison's eyes.

His wife shook her head at him, but Frances ran off to find the
magazine. Miss Sherwin recovered herself, and explained with a great
deal of dignity that, if it were so, it was quite accidental. That she
had known Mr. Carter since they were children, and was, of course, very
familiar with his face; then she said good evening, and left them.

"Very well done," Mr. Morrison exclaimed.

"Why, where is Miss Lillian," asked Frances, coming back; "I want to
show her the picture. It is like Mr. Carter."

"Not now, dear,--another time," said her mother; adding, "You were
aching to tease her, Jack, and I am glad she did not give you an
opportunity."

Mr. Morrison laughed. "I suppose congratulations are next in order. It
is at least a natural inference when you find a young man's image so
deeply graven upon the heart of a young woman that she unconsciously
re