“Well, then, in Holburton, where you were last summer. Didn’t you board with a Fleming?” “You are right again. He lives in Holburton,” Everard replied, laughing immoderately at the idea of _he_ as applied to Josephine. Thus far he had answered all Rossie’s questions correctly, but when she said, “Tell me, please, his right name. Is it Joel, or Joseph, or what?” the old look of cunning leaped into his eyes, and he answered her: “No, you don’t. Joe is enough for you to know. Besides, why are you questioning me so closely? What are you going to do?” “I’m going to try and get you out of your trouble,” Rossie said, and starting up in bed, Everard exclaimed: “Get me out of the scrape! Oh, Rossie, if you only would,—if you only could!” “I can, I will!” Rossie said, emphatically, and he continued: “Out of every single bit of it?—the whole thing, so I’ll be free again?” “Yes,” Rossie answered at random; “I think, I am sure, I will. But you must keep very quiet and not get excited, or talk. Try to sleep, and I’ll fix it for you beautifully.” How hopeful she was, and the delirious man believed and trusted in her, and promised to sleep while she was gone to fix it. “But it may take a few days, you know,” she said, “so you must be patient, and wait.” He acceded to everything, and closed his eyes as she left the room and repaired to her own, where she went straight to the glass, and letting out her heavy braids of hair, suffered it to fall over her shoulders like a vail. Then Rossie studied herself, and saw a thin face, with great, wide-open, black eyes, which would look larger, more wide-open still, with all that hair gone. What a fright she would be without her hair, which was beautiful. Bee Belknap had said so, others had said so, and, if she was not mistaken, Everard had said so, too, and for his sake she’d like to keep it, though for his sake she was deciding to part with it. Maybe he did not think it pretty, after all. She wished she knew; and, yielding to a sudden impulse, she went back to his room with all her shining tresses about her, and so astonished him that he called out: “Halloo, Lady Godiva! Are you going to ride through the town, clothed with modesty?” Rossie was not well versed in Tennyson, and knew nothing of Lady Godiva, but she said to him: “Mr. Everard, do you think my hair pretty?” “Nothing extra,” was his reply. “I’ve seen hair handsomer than that. Don’t be vain, Rossie. You will never be a beauty, hair or no hair.” Her pride was hurt a little, but her mind was made up, and retiring to her room and fastening herself in, she sat down to write to _Joe Fleming_. CHAPTER IX THE RESULT.