has, at any rate.—­I saw a book she had, which must have come from the divinity-student.  It had a dreary title-page, which she had enlivened with a fancy portrait of the author,—­a face from memory, apparently,—­one of those faces that small children loathe without knowing why, and which give them that inward disgust for heaven so many of the little wretches betray, when they hear that these are “good men,” and that heaven is full of such.—­The gentleman with the diamond—­the Koh-i-noor, so called by us—­was not encouraged, I think, by the reception of his packet of perfumed soap.  He pulls his purple moustache and looks appreciatingly at Iris, who never sees him, as it should seem.  The young Marylander, who I thought would have been in love with her before this time, sometimes looks from his corner across the long diagonal of the table, as much as to say, I wish you were up here by me, or I were down there by you,—­which would, perhaps, be a more natural arrangement than the present one.  But nothing comes of all this,—­and nothing has come of my sagacious idea of finding out the girl’s fancies by looking into her locked drawing-book.

Not to give up all the questions I was determined to solve, I made an attempt also to work into the Little Gentleman’s chamber.  For this purpose, I kept him in conversation, one morning, until he was just ready to go up-stairs, and then, as if to continue the talk, followed him as he toiled back to his room.  He rested on the landing and faced round toward me.  There was something in his eye which said, Stop there!  So we finished our conversation on the landing.  The next day, I mustered assurance enough to knock at his door, having a pretext ready.—­No answer.—­Knock again.  A door, as if of a cabinet, was shut softly and locked, and presently I heard the peculiar dead beat of his thick-soled, misshapen boots.  The bolts and the lock of the inner door were unfastened,—­with unnecessary noise, I thought,—­and he came into the passage.  He pulled the inner door after him and opened the outer one at which I stood.  He had on a flowered silk dressing-gown, such as “Mr. Copley” used to paint his old-fashioned merchant-princes in; and a quaint-looking key in his hand.  Our conversation was short, but long enough to convince me that the Little Gentleman did not want my company in his chamber, and did not mean to have it.

I have been making a great fuss about what is no mystery at all,—­a schoolgirl’s secrets and a whimsical man’s habits.  I mean to give up such nonsense and mind my own business.—­Hark!  What the deuse is that odd noise in his chamber?