Tom Fuller followed the pretty elf about everywhere in spite of her cruel rebuffs, for he was sadly in her way that night; and when she refused to dance with him, peremptorily ordering him away to entertain dowagers, or perform any similar heavy work, he would take the post she assigned him, and watch her with fascinated eyes as she floated down the dance or practised her wiles on every man who approached, just as she had once thought it worth while to entrance him. On that evening Tom Fuller woke to a consciousness of the truth; he understood the confusion and bewilderment which had been in his mind for weeks past; he loved this bright young creature with the whole force of his rugged nature, and began dimly to comprehend that she cared no more for him or his sufferings than if his heart had been a football or shuttlecock. He captured Elizabeth, and there, in the midst of the lights and gayety, told her of his wrongs, with such energy that it required her constant effort to prevent him from attracting general attention. "I love her," he burst out, "I do love her! She might run my heart through with a rusty bayonet, if she would only care for me." The beginning was not at all coherent, but Elizabeth perfectly understood what he meant. Several times during the past weeks she had attempted to open his eyes to the truth; but he would neither see nor hear, and had insisted upon rushing on to his fate like a great blundering bluebottle into a spider's web. "Do you think there's any hope, Bessie, do you? I ain't handsome, and I ain't disgustingly rich; but I'll give her all my heart! I'll work for her, die for her; I'd lay my own soul down for her to walk over, only to keep her little feet dry, upon my honor I would." Elizabeth drew him into a window recess, and tried to soothe his agitation. "Poor old Tom!" she whispered; "poor dear old Tom!" "I know what that means," he said, choking desperately; "you don't think there is any hope. You know there is not!" "I have tried to talk to you, Tom, but you wouldn't listen--" "Yes, I know, I know! It's my own fault--I'll--I'll turn up jolly in a little while--it's only the f-first that's hard!" And Tom blew and whistled in his efforts to keep his composure, in a way that was irresistibly ludicrous. In the midst of his distress the poor fellow could not help being comical. Even in the suffering which was so terribly real to him he made Elizabeth smile. "I'm a great fool!" he exclaimed. "Just pitch in and abuse me like smoke, Bessie, I think it would do me good." "Only wait till to-morrow," she said, "I will talk with you then--we shall be overheard now."