“I’m afraid—that is, I think Louis will be in by and by,” said Alice. “Let me know when he comes. Unfortunately, Edgar is out of town to-night, or I would call him to talk to you.” “The solemn Edgar! I’m glad he is,” replied Pinkie. Louis was late that night. In reality, he was detained by an extra job at which he worked out of hours, but Pinkie had had ample time to picture to herself another river-side ramble, and to feel genuinely forsaken and miserable, before he entered softly and unannounced. The white figure in the arm-chair by the window, dimly visible by the moonlight, he supposed to be Mrs. Richards, and approached gently; but, as he bent to give her his usual kiss of greeting, he sprang back, startled. Pinkie, in tears and alone, arrayed in a vesture, as it seemed, of hoar-frost and moonbeams, with fragrant rosebuds in her bosom, and soft white fingers that clung to his confidingly, as she said,— “It’s nobody but me. Did you expect to find Aunt Alice? She is with Uncle Fred. He is so much worse, and I have been so sad and lonely.” “She _had been_.” Louis’ fair cheek flushed deeply; he drew a hard breath between his set teeth. The radiance of the full September moon was all about her, the fragrance of the pale rosebuds filled the air; and it was no haughty money-princess who spoke, but his own Pinkie, whose lips he had kissed, and who had thrown herself, weeping, into his arms. Louis felt that he had need of all his manhood, if he would not be doubly scorned when this changing mood should have passed away. And yet— “I suppose you were thinking of Freddy,” he said very gently, but coldly; “it is natural you should feel sad.” “I was thinking of myself,” said Pinkie honestly enough. “Oh, Louis, just think how lonely I am all day, in that great house, with only the servants to talk to! I wish I were Aunt Alice’s daughter! I should like to be poor and work for her.” “No, no, that you certainly would not,” replied Louis, smiling in spite of himself. “But I should,” she persisted. “Why not? she is the only creature on earth that cares a straw for me; why should I not work for her?” “What are you trying to make me say?” asked Louis, very pale, but still smiling; “something that you can laugh at me for afterwards? That is not worthy of you, Pinkie.” “I don’t see what right you have to call me that!” cried the girl, springing to her feet in sudden anger at the calm superiority of his tone. “You seemed, some way, to give me the right,” said the young man simply; “but I beg your pardon; I will be more careful. And now I have something to say to you, Miss Randolph. Ever since you returned, your manner to me has been as if I were some presumptuous upstart whom you were obliged to keep in his place. And I want to tell you that I know my place quite well; I am a shoemaker and an employé of ‘Prices’; so you may spare yourself any further trouble in the matter.”