begun to tell on me, and mother was so much improved, I thought I’d run out for a walk along the seawall.  The sunset was creeping round everything, and lying in great sheets on the broad, still river, the children were frolicking in the water, and all was so gay, and the air was so sweet, that I went lingering along farther than I’d meant, and by-and-by who should I see but a couple sauntering toward me at my own gait, and one of them was Faith.  She had on a muslin with little roses blushing all over it, and she floated along in it as if she were in a pink cloud, and she’d snatched a vine of the tender young woodbine as she went, and, throwing it round her shoulders, held the two ends in one hand like a ribbon, while with the other she swung her white sun-bonnet.  She laughed, and shook her head at me, and there, large as life, under the dark braids dangled my coral ear-rings, that she’d adopted without leave or license.  She’d been down to the lower landing to meet Dan,—­a thing she’d done before I don’t know when,—­and was walking up with Mr. Gabriel while Dan stayed behind to see to things.  I kept them talking, and Mr. Gabriel was sparkling with fun, for he’d got to feeling acquainted, and it had put him in high spirits to get ashore at this hour, though he liked the sea, and we were all laughing, when Dan came up.  Now I must confess I hadn’t fancied Mr. Gabriel over and above; I suppose my first impression had hardened into a prejudice; and after I’d fathomed the meaning of Faith’s fine feathers I liked him less than ever.  But when Dan came up, he joined right in, gay and hearty, and liking his new acquaintance so much, that, thinks I, he must know best, and I’ll let him look out for his interests himself.  It would ‘a’ been no use, though, for Dan to pretend to beat the Frenchman at his own weapons,—­and I don’t know that I should have cared to have him.  The older I grow, the less I think of your mere intellect; throw learning out of the scales, and give me a great, warm heart,—­like Dan’s.

Well, it was getting on in the evening, when the latch lifted, and in ran Faith.  She twisted my ear-rings out of her hair, exclaiming,—­

“Oh, Georgie, are you busy?  Can’t you perse my ears now?”

“Pierce them yourself, Faith.”

“Well, pierce, then.  But I can’t,—­you know I can’t.  Won’t you now, Georgie?” and she tossed the ear-rings into my lap.

“Why, Faith,” said I, “how’d you contrive to wear these, if your ears aren’t”—­

“Oh, I tied them on.  Come now, Georgie!”

So I got the ball of yarn and the darning-needle.

“Oh, not such a big one!” cried she.

“Perhaps you’d like a cambric needle,” said I.

“I don’t want a winch,” she pouted.

“Well, here’s a smaller one.  Now kneel down.”

“Yes, but you wait a moment, till I screw up my courage.”

“No need.  You can talk, and I’ll take you at unawares.”