Away after her, through block after block, across the crowded avenue to Broadway.  “Who is she? where did she come from? I never saw her before.  I wonder if Mrs. Russell knows her, or Clara, or anybody!  I will know where she lives, or where she is going at least,—­that will be some clew!  There! she is stopping that stage.  I’ll help her in! no, I won’t,—­she will think I am chasing her.  Nonsense! do you suppose she saw you at the window?  Of course!  No, she didn’t; don’t be a fool!  There!  I’ll get into the next stage.  Now I’ll keep watch of that, and she’ll not know.  So—­all right!  Go ahead, driver.”  And happy with some new happiness, eager, bright, the handsome young fellow sat watching that other stage, and the stylish little lace bonnet that was all he could see of his magnet, through the interminable journey down Broadway.

How clear the air seemed! and the sun, how splendidly it shone! and what a glad look was upon all the people’s faces!  He felt like breaking out into gay little snatches of song, and moved his foot to the waltz measure that beat time in his brain till the irate old gentleman opposite, whom nature had made of a sour complexion and art assisted to corns, broke out with an angry exclamation.  That drew his attention for a moment.  A slackening of speed, a halt, and the stage was wedged in one of the inextricable “jams” on Broadway.  Vain the search for her stage then; looking over the backs of the poor, tired horses, or from the sidewalk,—­here, there, at this one and that one,—­all for naught!  Stage and passenger, eyes, little lace bonnet, and all, had vanished away, as William Surrey confessed, and confessed with reluctance and discontent.

“No matter!” he said presently,—­“no matter!  I shall see her again.  I know it!  I feel it!  It is written in the book of the Fates!  So now I shall content me with something”—­that looks like her he did not say definitely, but felt it none the less, as, going over to the flower-basket near by, he picked out a little nosegay of mignonette and geranium, with a tea-rosebud in its centre, and pinned it at his button-hole.  “Delicate and fine!” he thought,—­“delicate and fine!” and with the repetition he looked from it down the long street after the interminable line of stages; and somehow the faint, sweet perfume, and the fair flower, and the dainty lace bonnet, were mingled in wild and charming confusion in his brain, till he shook himself, and laughed at himself, and quoted Shakespeare to excuse himself,—­“A mad world, my masters!”—­seeing this poor old earth of ours, as people always do, through their own eyes.

“God bless ye! and long life to yer honor! and may the blessed Virgin give ye the desire of yer heart!” called the Irishwoman after him, as he put back the change in her hand and went gayly up the street.  “Sure, he’s somebody’s darlint, the beauty! the saints preserve him!” she said, as she looked from the gold piece in her palm to the fair, sunny head, watching it till it was lost in the crowd from her grateful eyes.