“What a fib, Rosa,” said Charlie, when I told him what I had written. “You know you are not homely. You used to be, I’ll admit; but you are far from being so now. To be sure, you are not what many would call handsome, but you are decidedly good-looking. You’ve got handsome eyes, splendid hair (and he pulled one of my short, thick curls by way of adding emphasis to his words) and your complexion is not one half so sallow and muddy as it used to be. Depend upon it, this ‘Mrs. Angeline Delafield Lansing, of Cedar Grove’ will think you have deceived her.” “Nonsense!” I replied, seating myself at the piano, which was now my constant companion, Mrs. Lansing having written that she was very particular about music. Now, to tell the truth, I was _not_ very much of a performer, but looking upon the South very much as I did upon the far West, I fancied that a small amount of showy accomplishments would pass for the real coin. Still I determined to play as well as possible, and so week after week I practised, until, when I had nearly given up all hopes of ever hearing from the lady again, I one day received a letter bearing the W—— post-mark, and containing a check on a Boston bank for money sufficient to defray my expenses. There were also a few hastily written lines, saying that “Mrs. Lansing considered our engagement as settled, but she should not expect me until the latter part of April, as she could not immediately get rid of her present governess, a _painted, insipid_ creature from _New York_, and the veriest humbug in the world.” “A sweet time you’ll have of it with madam,” said Charlie, “and once for all I advise you to give up going. Why, only think, April there is hotter than pepper, and of course you’ll take the fever and die.” But I was not to be persuaded. The “sunny South” had for me a peculiar fascination; and then, too, there was another reason which, more than all others, prompted me to go. Georgia was the home of the _dark man_, as I called him, and though there was hardly a probability of my ever meeting him there, such a thing was still possible, and like Longfellow’s Evangeline, who, on the broad Mississippi, felt that each dip of the oar carried her nearer to her lost Gabriel, so each day I felt a stronger and stronger conviction that somewhere in the southern land I should find him.