and frank. I call this such a nice
letter. Oh, dear, what am I to say to it?

"But as it is" (he goes on) "I could do nothing but take my
chance and beg you to consider if you could possibly care for
me a little. May I say that I adore you, and that the rest of
my life should be given up to doing anything in the world to
secure your happiness? Had I a sister----"

Good heavens! His non-existent sister is cropping up again!

"Had I a sister or a mother living, they would come over at
once to wait on you; but I am a man literally alone in the
world. I live with an old uncle who is practically an invalid.
I hope you will not mind my calling upon you to-morrow, about
lunch-time, when I hope so much that you in your sweetness and
kindness may find it in your heart to give me another answer to
the one I had to hear to-night.

"Yours ever devotedly,
"REGINALD BRACE."

Yes! A charming letter, I call it. I do, indeed. And he--the writer of
it--is charming--that is, he's good, and "white," as men call it, which
is so much more, so much better than being "charming," which, I suppose,
people can't help, any more than they can help having corncockle-blue
eyes with black lashes--or whatever kind of eyes they may happen to
possess.

Mr. Brace's own eyes are very pleasant. So honest. It was horrid of me
to be ruffled and snappy to him when he came last night; cattish of me
to begin thinking of him as a Puritan and a prude and a prig. He's
nothing of the sort. It was only kind of him to come and try to warn me.

And, as it turns out, Mr. Brace was perfectly right about all these
people being no fit companions for a young and inexperienced girl....

Which reminds me! Only a few days ago I was considering this Mr. Brace
as a possible suitor for Million herself! Why, I'd quite forgotten that.
And now here he is lavishing offers of a life's devotion upon me, Miss
Million's maid.

I suppose I ought to be fearfully flattered. There's something in
Shakespeare about going down on one's knees and thanking Heaven fasting
for a good man's love. (I'm sure he is that.) And so I should be feeling
most frightfully pleased and proud, if only I'd time!

This morning I can think of nothing. Not even of my first proposal and
love-letter. Only of Miss Million, whom I last saw at half-past eleven
or so last night, sit