But Mrs. Eager had crossed his way, and filled, in many respects, his ideal of a woman.  There was a charm about her that won him against all resistance.

“Don’t let this opportunity pass,” said his interested lady friend, as the day of Mrs. Eager’s departure drew nigh.  “She is a woman in a thousand, and will make one of the best of wives.  Think, too, of her social position, her wealth and her large cultivation.  An opportunity like this is never presented more than once in a lifetime.”

“You speak,” replied Mr. Emerson, “as if I had only to say the word and this fair prize would drop into my arms.”

“She will have to be wooed if she is won.  Were this not the case she would not be worth having,” said the lady.  “But my word for it, if you turn wooer the winning will not be hard.  If I have not erred in my observation, you are about mutually interested.  There now, my cautious sir, if you do not get handsomely provided for, it will be no fault of mine.”

In two days from this time Mrs. Eager was to return to Boston.

“You must take her to see those new paintings at the rooms of the Society Library to-morrow.  I heard her express a desire to examine them before returning to Boston.  Connoisseurs are in ecstasies over three or four of the pictures, and, as Mrs. Eager is something of an enthusiast in matters of art, your favor in this will give her no light pleasure.”

“I shall be most happy to attend her,” replied Mr. Emerson.  “Give her my compliments, and say that, if agreeable to herself, I will call for her at twelve to-morrow.”

“No verbal compliments and messages,” replied the lady; “that isn’t just the way.”

“How then?  Must I call upon her and deliver my message?  That might not be convenient to me nor agreeable to her.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the lady, with affected impatience, “you men are so stupid at times!  You know how to write?”

“Ah! yes, I comprehend you now.”

“Very well.  Send your compliments and your message in a note; and let it be daintily worded; not in heavy phrases, like a legal document.”

“A very princess in feminine diplomacy!” said Mr. Emerson to himself, as he turned from the lady and took his way homeward.  “So I must pen a note.”

Now this proved a more difficult matter than he had at first thought.  He sat down to the task immediately on returning to his room.  On a small sheet of tinted note-paper he wrote a few words, but they did not please him, and the page was thrown into the fire.  He tried again, but with no better success—­again and again; but still, as he looked at the brief sentences, they seemed to express too much or too little.  Unable to pen the note to his satisfaction, he pushed, at last, his writing materials aside, saying,

“My head will be clearer and cooler in the morning.”

It was drawing on to midnight, and Mr. Emerson had not yet retired.  His thoughts were too busy for sleep.  Many things were crowding into his mind—­questions, doubts, misgivings—­scenes from the past and imaginations of the future.  And amid them all came in now and then, just for a moment, as he had seen it five years before, the pale, still face of Irene.