little girl whom he generally met just before the Montague Place
crossing. He always called her his "little girl," though she was by no
means little in the ordinary acceptation of the word, being at least
sixteen, and rather tall for her years. But there was a sort of
freshness and naivete and youthfulness about her which made him use
that adjective. She usually carried a pile of books in a strap, so he
conjectured that she must be coming from school, and, ever since he had
first seen her, she had worn the same rough blue serge dress, and the
same quaint little fur hat. In other details, however, he could never
tell in the least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood for
every day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost run
past him; sometimes she would saunter along in the most unconventional
way, glancing from time to time at a book or a paper; sometimes her
eager face would look absolutely bewitching in its brightness; sometimes
scarcely less bewitching in a consuming anxiety which seemed unnatural
in one so young.

One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way down
Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the driving rain
which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's shrill voice was
still far in the distance, the man of letters was still at work upon
knockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl to make
her appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when suddenly his
umbrella was nearly knocked out of his hand by coming violently into
collision with another umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, he
looked to see who it was who had charged him with such violence, and
found himself face to face with his unknown friend. He had never been
quite so close to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him,
but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen--it
took his heart by storm.

It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung over
the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than a
boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and piquant; the
usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to carnation, perhaps
because of the slight contretemps, perhaps because of some deeper
emotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown eyes that
were lifted to his seemed bright either with indignation or with unshed
tears. Today it was clear