"Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington looks at me, as though determined to take permission from my eyes alone. "Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a man so altogether grown up express a desire for our graceless society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we pause to bid each other once more good-bye. "And I may come to-morrow?" he asks, holding my hand closely. "Yes--but--but--I cannot give you the handkerchief before mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly. "True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief. But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as she entrance-gate, could you?" "I don't know," I return doubtfully, "If not, I can give it to you some other day." "So you can. Keep it until I am fortunate enough to meet you again. I shall probably get on without it until then." So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we part. For some time after he has left us, Billy and I move on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the silence by my faltering tones. "Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, "Billy tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very much of my leg?" "Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute I feel that with cheerfulness I could attend the funeral of my brother Billy. I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in his whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare dear Roly with my younger brother in a manner highly unflattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's place to day, instead of being as he always is with that tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might have been different. _He_ at least being a _man_, would have felt for me. How could I have been mad enough to look for sympathy from a _boy_? _Dear_ Roland! The only fault_ he_ has is his extreme and palpable selfishness. But what of that? Are not_ all_ men so afflicted? Why should he be condemned for what is only to be expected and looked for in the grander sex? What I detest more than anything else is a person who, while professing to be friends with one, only--- I grow morose, and decline all further conversation, until we come so near our home that but one turn more hides it from our view. Here Billy remonstrates. "Of course you can sulk if you like," he says in an injured tone, "and not speak to a fellow, all for nothing; but you can't go into the house with your arm like that, unless you wish them to discover the battle in which you have been engaged."