hter. "Indeed; but perhaps he might not care to have me
say. However, as I once informed you that you were very far from being
my ideal, possibly it may now be my duty to qualify that harsh
statement somewhat."

"By confessing that I am your ideal?"

"Oh, indeed, no! We never realize our ideals, you know, or else they
would entirely cease to be ideals. My confession is limited to a mere
admission that I now consider you a very pleasant young man."

"You offer me a stone when I cry unto you for bread," he exclaimed.
"The world is filled with pleasant young men. They are a drug on the
market. I beg some special distinction, some different classification
in your eyes."

"You are becoming quite hard to please," her face turned partially
away, her look meditative, "and--and dictatorial; but I will try. You
are intelligent, a splendid dancer, fairly good-looking, rather bright
at times, and, no doubt, would prove venturesome if not held strictly
to your proper place. Take it all in all, you are even interesting,
and--I admit--I am inclined to like you."

The tantalizing tone and manner nerved him; he grasped the white hand
resting invitingly on the grass, and held it firmly within his own.
"You only make sport as you did once before. I must have the whole
truth."

"Oh, no; to make sport at such a time would be sheerest mockery, and I
would never dare to be so free. Why, remember we are scarcely more
than strangers. How rude you are! only our third time of meeting, and
you will not release my hand."

"Not unless I must, Naida," and the deep ringing soberness of his voice
startled the girl into suddenly uplifting her eyes to his face. What
she read there instantly changed her mood from playfulness to earnest
gravity.

"Oh, please do not--do not say what you are tempted to," her voice
almost pleading. "I cannot listen; truly I cannot; I must not. It
would make us both very unhappy, and you would be sure to regret such
hasty words."

"Regret!" and he yet clung to the hand which she scarcely endeavored to
release, bending forward, hoping to read in her hidden eyes the secret
her lips guarded. "Am I, then, not old enough to know my own mind?"

"Yes--yes; I hope so, yes; but it is not for me; it can never be for
me--I am no more than a child, a homeless waif, a nobody. You forget
that I do not even know who I am, or the name I ought rightfully to
bear. I will not have it so."

"Naida, sweetheart!" and