“I know Miss Fanny.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Stop!” said the young man, laughing with his easy nonchalance; “tell me if we are rivals.”

“Anan?” said Verty.

“Are you in love with her?  Honor bright now, my dear fellow?”

“No,” said Verty, drawn, he did not know how, toward the laughing young man; “no, not with—­Miss Fanny.”

“Ah, ah!—­then with whom?  Not the lovely Sallianna—­the admirer of nature?  Faith! you’re too good-looking a fellow to throw yourself away on such a simpering old maid.  By Jove! my dear friend, and new acquaintance, I like you!  Let us be friends.  My name’s Ralph Ashley—­I’m Fanny’s cousin.  Come! confidence for confidence!”

Verty smiled.

“My name is Verty,” he said; “I havn’t any other—­I’m an Indian.”

“An Indian!”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible?”

Verty nodded.

“Why, you are an elegant cavalier, or the devil take it!  I’m just from Williamsburg—­from the college there; and I never saw a finer seigneur than yourself, friend Verty.  An Indian!”

“That’s all,” said Verty; “the new clothes change me.  I got ’em at O’Brallaghan’s.”

“O’Brallaghan’s?  The rascal! to sell my suit!  That accounts for all!  But I don’t complain of you.  On the contrary, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.  Have you been up there?—­I suppose you have?”

And the young man pointed toward the Bower of Nature.

“Yes,” said Verty.

“Visiting?”

“Yes—­Redbud.”

“Pretty little Miss Summers?”

Verty heaved a profound sigh, and said, “Yes.”

The young man shook his head.

“Take care, my dear fellow,” he said, with a wise air, “I saw her in town the other morning, and I consider her dangerous.  She would not be dangerous to me; I am an old bird among the charming young damsels of this wicked world, and, consequently, not to be caught by chaff—­such chaff as brilliant eyes, and rosy-cheeks, and smiles; but, without being critical, my dear friend, I may be permitted to observe, that you look confiding.  Take care—­it is the advice of a friend.  Come and see me at Bousch’s tavern where I am staying, if my visnomy has made a favorable impression—­Ah! there’s Fanny!  I must fly to her—­the charming infant.”

And the young man gave a farewell nod to Verty, and went on singing, and making signs to the distant Fanny.

Verty gazed after him for a moment; then heaving another sigh much more profound than any which had yet issued from his lips, went slowly on toward the town—­his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging down, his eyes intently engaged in staring vacancy out of countenance.  If we are asked how it happened that the merry, joyous Verty, whose face was before all sunshine, now resembled nobody so much as some young and handsome Don Quixote, reflecting on the obduracy of his Toboso Dulcinea, we can only reply, that Verty was in love, and had not prospered lately—­that is to say, on that particular day, in his suit; and, in consequence, felt as if the world no longer held any more joy or light for him, forever.