ies so much as those of the gourmand,
and, reddening to the roots of his stubbed hair, he looked the reverse
of pleased with the tactless young woman,--an expression usually to be
found on the countenance of one or more members of a company following
the publication of her opinions.

Miss Grosvenor and Ernest continued to chat with such apparent
enjoyment that Dawn said pointedly--

"Pooh! there's no art in pulling a boat; any galoot with a little
brute force can do that,"--a remark having the desired effect, for the
young Breslaw feigned not to hear, his face rivalled the colour of
"Dora's," and his remarks grew absent.

"Oh, I don't know," persisted Carry, "I know plenty of
galoots,--they're the only sort of men there are in the Noonoon
district, and they can't row for sour apples."

Dawn singled out "Dora" Eweword, and went up the bank with him,
leaving the remainder of us together. Miss Grosvenor favoured us with
a cordial invitation to partake of the hospitality of her home during
the following evening; and delighted with the intelligence and go of
the girl, I was pleased to accept. Ernest said he would be delighted
to escort me, but Carry said she had her work to do, and had no time
to run about to people's places. Miss Grosvenor received this with a
merry twinkle in her eye, and said to me--

"Well, Dawn will come to show you the way. It is an uncomfortable path
if you don't know it;" and with this she bade good afternoon and ran
around the orchard among the square weed and wild quince, across an
area abounding in lines of barbed-wire.

Ernest too departed in a triangular direction leading to the curious
old bridge spanning the stream.

"What makes him hang about here so long?" asked Carry. "Has he a girl
in the district? Do you think he seems gone on Dawn?"

"Perhaps it's Carry?"

"No such luck. I wish he were. I suppose he has money. They say over
where he boards he has a set of rooms to himself, and is very liberal.
What would he be doing up here so long?"

"He doesn't publish his business. Perhaps he's staying in this nice
quiet nook to write a book or something," I said idly, by way of
accounting for his idleness, or the curious might have set to work to
discover more of his doings than he wished to get abroad just then.

"He doesn't look much like the fools that write books, but every one
is writing one these days. I know of five or six about Noonoon even;
it seems to be a craze."

"Perhaps