to be as prosaic as possible, a few novelties to be

added to our conversational stock would not be amiss. I wondered if the evening had seemed very long to him. I felt he would not like to admit that it had, but I was resolved that my object should be to force him to make that confession. I pictured him seated in the arm-chair reading and waiting for me—especially waiting.

I said good-night to the Donaldsons as soon as we arrived at the hotel, and resisted their invitation to supper. Supper indeed! Going quietly upstairs I coyly knocked at the parlor door, and then drawing back into the shadow, waited for it to be opened. There was no answer. In my coyness, I supposed I had not made myself heard, so with decidedly more energy, I knocked again.

It was long past midnight. Arthur must have fallen asleep, I reflected. He was tired, and such a vigil was by no means encouraging. So I turned the knob of the door and walked in. The gas was burning brightly; there was an untidy gathering of newspapers upon the sofa, and the room had all the appearance of an