Far from approving the crooked policy which led Roger Smith to feign lameness long after the injured ankle had become as sound as ever, the present historian can only, in view of this lapse from integrity, affirm with Widow Bedott that "we're poor creeturs!" and, with that depreciative view of humanity, go on with this truthful narrative. A whole delicious month had been passed by the Harvard man in this paradise,--Elysian days, while, waited on by Sholto, petted by Miss Paulina, and companioned by the loveliest of houris, he dreamed out his dream. At last, on a certain decisive evening, Roger Smith found himself alone in the gloaming with Louise Hemmenshaw. The aunt, who through all these weeks had zealously chaperoned her niece, had passed into the dining-room to evolve some chafing-dish delicacy for the evening meal. Without, the setting sun flooded all the west with gold, touched the distant mountain peaks with splendor, and threw a parting veil of glory over the wide mesa. Within, the firelight made dancing shadows on the parlor wall, where the pair sat together in that eloquent silence so dear to love. "Well," said the athlete to himself (compunctiously glancing at his superfluous crutches, left within easy reach of his hand), "this performance can't go on forever. I have made believe about long enough; what better may I do than own up this very night, and somehow bring this base deceit to an end." Mentally rehearsing the formula, in which, over and over, he had asked the hand of this beautiful aristocrat, his mind still sorely misgave him. "Why," thought this depressed lover, "was not my name Winthrop, Endicott, or Sturgis, instead of Smith; and my grandfather a senator, a judge, or even a stockbroker, rather than a tanner?" Neither Miss Paulina nor her brother, he discouragedly mused, would ever countenance this unequal match. His millions would with them weigh nothing against "the claims of long descent." The sun had gone down, the after-glow had faded to gray. They were still alone. The firelight half revealed the lovely figure beside the hearth. In that gown of golden-brown velvet, with the creamy old lace at wrists and throat, the brown hair combed smoothly from the white forehead, knotted behind and fastened with a quaint arrow of Etruscan gold, Louise Hemmenshaw was simply adorable! It was indeed good to be here; and why should not a life so sweet and satisfying go on indefinitely? "It is four weeks to-day since I fell down cellar,"--such was the commonplace beginning to this much considered tale of love.