The Wayfarers. Mary Stewart Cutting

type, although, as she learned later, a New Englander by birth and heritage. Dosia was not quite sure whether the effect was pleasing or the reverse; there seemed to be something about him different from the other men she had seen, even in his clothing, although it was plain enough.

      Interspersed with these observations were the increasing throbs of homesickness that threatened to overwhelm her. Kind as Justin had been, she had felt all the time outside of his thought and affection. This new companion had shown consideration for her; she was grateful for it, but she was unprepared to have him lean suddenly toward her, as a tear trembled perilously on her lashes, and say, with twinkling eyes:

      “I beg your pardon, but do I look like him?”

      “Like—like whom?” asked Dosia, in amazement.

      “Like a person to be approved of.”

      “I haven’t considered the subject,” said Dosia, with swift dignity.

      “Ah, you see, it’s the reverse with me. As soon as Mrs. Alexander told me she was expecting you, my mind was filled with visions of a sweet young thing from the South. All sweet young things from the South have dreams; mine was to embody yours. And when I saw you, I said to myself—I beg your pardon, do you think I am getting too personal, on such short acquaintance?”

      “Yes,” answered Dosia, dimpling in spite of herself, “very much too personal.” She turned her head away from him, that she might not see those sparkling, quizzical eyes so close.

      “Very well; I will finish the sentence to-morrow, as you suggest. In the meantime, let me ask you if you have ever made a collection of conductors’ thumbs?”

      “No!” said Dosia, in astonishment, turning around again to face him.

      “I am told that there is a great deal of character in them; it is given by the broad, free movement of punching tickets. I have thought of collecting thumbs for purposes of study—in alcohol, of course. But why do you look so surprised?”

      “I am surprised that you have no collection already,” said Dosia, with spirit; “you seem to be so enterprising.”

      He shook his head sadly. “No. How little you know me! I’m not enterprising in the least; I have no heroic virtues, I’m only—loving.”

      “Oh!” cried Dosia, and stopped short in a ripple of merriment that was more invigorating than wine, and that brought a rush of color to her cheeks.

      “No? well, not until the day after to-morrow, then, if you say so. You’re so very, very good to me, Miss Linden; it’s not often I find anyone so considerate as you are. And have you come up North to make your entrance into society?”

      “I have come North to study music,” said Theodosia impressively.

      “Music! Ah, there you have me.” He spoke with a new soberness.

      “Do you like it?”

      “I like it almost better than anything else in the world—too much, and yet not enough, after all.” He shook his head with a quick, somber gesture. “I’ll help you with the music, if you’ll let me. Did you notice how very quickly we became acquainted? Yes? I know now why; it puzzled me at first. It was the music in you to which I responded—I can tell you just what little song of Schubert’s your smile is from, if you’ll give me time.”