than sob in that way, and, bracing himself with
patience, he began.

"How was it that he entertained you so? what did he do?" he asked. There
was no indefiniteness about that "he;" there was only one "he" for
Garda.

She took the bait immediately. "Oh, I don't know. He always made me
laugh." Then her face brightened as recollection woke. "He was always
saying things that I had never thought of--not like the things that
other people say," she went on; "and he said them, too, in a way that
always pleased me so much. Generally he surprised me, and I like to be
surprised."

"Yes, I see; it was the novelty."

"No," answered Garda, with a reasonable air, "it couldn't have been the
novelty alone, because, don't you see, there were you. You were
novel--nothing could have been more so; and yet you never _began_ to
give me any such amusement as Lucian did."

Evert Winthrop remarked to himself that a girl had to be very pretty,
very pretty indeed, before a man could enjoy such comparisons as these
from her lips. But Garda Thorne's beauty was enchanting, sometimes he
had thought it irresistibly so; to be wandering with this exquisite
young creature on his arm, in this soft air, on this far southern
shore--yes--one could put up with a good deal for that.

They reached the landing; she seated herself on the bench that stood at
the bank's edge, under the last oak, and folded her hands passively. A
little dilapidated platform of logs, covered with planks, ran out a few
yards into the water; the old boat of the Thornes lay moored at its end.
Winthrop took a seat on the bench also. "Tell me, Garda," he said, "have
you ever thought of going north?"

"I have thought of it to-day. But there's no use, we cannot go."

"Don't you remember that you wanted to see snow, and the great winter
storms?"

"Did I?" said Garda, vaguely. "I should like to go to Washington," she
added, with more animation. "But what is the use of talking about it? We
cannot go." And she relapsed again. "We cannot ever go anywhere, unless
we should be able to sell the place, and we shall never be able to sell
it, because nobody wants it; nobody _could_ want it."

"It's a pleasant old place," remarked Winthrop.

A sudden light came into Garda's eyes. "Mr. Winthrop," she said,
eagerly, "I had forgotten your odd tastes; perhaps you really do like
East Angels? I remember I thought so once, or rather mamma did; mamma
thought you might buy it. I told her I did not