hat right had he to call upon her for her likeness? At
another she was quite as firmly resolved to send him one. The whispered
vanity which told her that he would not be disappointed in it was not
easily resisted. At last, however, a simple middle course--an easy way
out of the difficulty--suggested itself, and, as it promised, too, to
throw another puzzling veil of mystery over her identity, she seized it
eagerly, and that very afternoon put it into execution. Seated on the
rocks that overlooked the sea, gathering thoughts in long gazes toward
the distant horizon, and allowing imagination to roam as freely as could
her eyes over the unbounded ocean, she wrote her answer. After touching
upon the episodes of their earlier days which his last letter had
brought to light, and adding the details of a few more experiences which
her fertile mind suggested, she turned to the subject of the photograph.
"I wish it were better," she wrote. "It is a shockingly poor likeness, I
know, but may serve as a reminder of your little playmate, if not as a
perfect representation of her." She sealed the envelope, enclosing the
picture, and, seeing Galusha Krinklebottom drive by just at the moment,
hailed him, and sent photograph, letter, and all in his care to the
mails.

It is strange how, even after bitter experience, many of us persist in
putting the cart before the horse,--doing the deed before taking the
proper consideration of its consequences. When the letter had gone, and
not before, Mabel fully realized that she had done something positively
wicked and unpardonable. Her terrible sin kept her awake all that night
and preyed upon her mind for days afterward. "I hardly know the girl,"
she pleaded in self-excuse to her injured conscience. "What of that?"
exclaimed the voice sternly. "I don't like her, anyhow," she added,
almost in tears. "What of that?" persisted the voice angrily. Oh, well,
it was done and could not be undone now. It was mean, perhaps, to send
him another girl's picture, but, considering that the whole world
acknowledged that Mabel Moreley was far the better-looking of the two,
did not this sacrifice of vanity palliate the offence? It seemed, after
all, a very remote possibility that any harm could come to the other
girl through this freak of hers. She could not, of course, have sent her
own picture, and this was the only one in her collection that had seemed
at all passable: so, eventually, the iniquity of the proceedi