"That was because she was so nice that she needed no commendation," rejoined Miss Jones promptly. "For all that, history shows that she has made a deal of mischief in the world," said Grover lugubriously; he was feeling piqued and abused at her want of responsiveness to his undisguised admiration. "History was written by men," was Miss Jones's response. "But made by women," ejaculated Grover, eager to hold his own in the tilt. "As you like. I don't think the man was far wrong who said that there was a woman at the bottom of every important event." "You talk like a book." "I only wish I had the wit to make one. I would make you men stare if I published my version of the world's history." "You can do that better without the wit," he retorted recklessly; then, seeing a little cloud, as of pained surprise, pass over her countenance, he made a motion to seize her hand, but succeeded, instead, in knocking her parasol into the middle of the road. The necessity of recovering it cooled for the moment the passion which had threatened to overmaster him. "Pardon me," he murmured penitently, as he was again at her side. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings; but the fact is, I am on such a constant strain to keep my sentiment below the boiling point that I lose my self-control and say things the effect of which I only see after I have said them." "Don't apologize, please," she said, hurrying on so rapidly that he could only with difficulty keep pace with her; then as a perfect godsend, there crossed her line of vision two small boys who were pulling each other's hair and pummelling each other lustily. "You naughty boy," she ejaculated with much animation, seizing the bigger one by the arm and forcing him to face her, "why do you strike that poor little fellow?" "He mixes himself up in my affairs," responded the culprit, defiantly; then discovering a considerable tuft of his antagonist's hair in his hand, he turned about shame-faced and tried to dispose of it, unperceived. Miss Jones, however (though she was not without sympathy for any one whose affairs were becoming mixed), dexterously caught the descending tuft on the point of her parasol and held it up as proof of his guilt. "What a dreadful little boy you are," she said, reprovingly. "But I will pummel Anton again," retorted the dreadful little boy, "if he plays 'engaged' with Tilly Heitmann." "Plays 'engaged!' Ah, then I beg your pardon," said Miss Jones, airily, with a sly little glance at her companion. "Little boys who play engaged deserve to be pummelled." IV.