I began to dress, looking each moment from the window with the hope that she might pass by.  The street was quiet—­no one to be seen.  Presently, from a house near, tripped two pretty girls, and I eagerly came forward to see them.  “If it is not my rose herself,” I thought, “it maybe some relation—­cousin, sister, friend:  I am interested in the whole town since she lives here.”  The girls came nearer.  They walked without affectation:  you could imagine that the spirit of Modesty herself had taught them that quiet demeanor.  Suddenly they looked up and saw me.  Am I Mephistopheles, to produce such a dire effect?  They looked down, they simpered, they laughed a laugh that was not natural:  their voices grew louder.

“Did you see him?” said one.

“So perfectly lovely!” said the other.

“I wonder who he is?” remarked the first.

“My fate,” I muttered as I turned away.

After breakfast I sallied forth, humming “Pure as the Snow.”  Taking a reconnoissance of the town, I came to a pretty house with woodbine-covered porch, and a slender figure at the window.

“I will not startle her with a rude glance,” thought I, for I could see without appearing to look.  As my step resounded the figure turned.

“Oh, do come here, Jessie!  Who can he be?” said the slender figure to some one inside.

I raised my eyes slowly, and my hat.  “Could you tell me the way to Mr. Hearty’s?” I asked, not thinking of any other excuse for speaking to her.

Blushing, she told me.

“And might I ask you,” looking beseechingly at her as a person who might be my future wife—­“might I ask you to give me one of your roses?”

“Take as many as you like,” she said courteously.

“I would rather you gave me one,” with a smile.

She hesitated for an instant, then quickly plucked a bud from the side of the open window, threw it to me and ran away.

“I shall find my Rose later,” sighed I.

I sauntered on to church, a pretty little building of mossy gray stone, and seated myself on a shady bench under the elms to watch the people assembling.

Ye gods! could it be?  Here were last summer’s styles, airs and grimaces, served up as it were cold.  I could pick out bad copies of each girl I had flirted with the past season.  You remember Florence Rich at The Resort?—­here was her portrait in caricature.  Florence was the vainest girl I ever knew, and showed it too.  But she was vain of herself.  This country Florence was vain of a new silk that I would have taken the odds she was wearing for the first time.  She looked as if she were saying with every rustle, “Admire me!” though of course she wasn’t, you know.  She was constantly arranging her bracelet or smoothing her glove, and looking on this side and that to see if any one was observing her.  By this means she gave her admirers the benefit of her full face, showing both earrings; then of her profile, showing one earring and her curls; and then of the back of her head, showing her fall bonnet.  Her little black veil ended just where her nose needed a shade.  It is needless to mention that she looked at me as she passed and gave me a smile a la profile, which was ostensibly aimed at a pale young man near the church-door.