"This is the man, all tattered and torn, that spattered the maiden all forlorn. _This_ is the dog that stole the muff. _This_ is the ring he sent the maid--" "Muff-in ring," suggested some one, and then they laughed louder than ever. I felt that that singing-school was no place for me that evening, and I stole away as noiselessly as I had entered. I went home and packed my trunk. The next morning I said to father: "Give me my share of the profits for the last month," and he gave me one hundred and thirty dollars. "I am going where no one knows me, mother, so good-bye. You'll hear from me when I'm settled," and I was actually off on the nine o'clock New York express. Every seat was full in every car but one--one seat beside a pretty, fashionably-dressed young lady was vacant. I stood up against the wood-box and looked at that seat, as a boy looks at a jar of peppermint-drops in a candy-store window. After a while I reflected that these people were all strangers, and, of course, unaware of my infirmity; this gave me a certain degree of courage. I left the support of the wood-box and made my way along the aisle until I came to the vacant seat. "Miss," I began, politely, but the lady purposely looked the other way; she had her bag in the place where I wanted to sit, and she didn't mean to move it, if she could help it. "Miss," I said again, in a louder tone. Two or three people looked at us. That confused me; her refusing to look around confused me; one of my old bad spells began to come on. "Miss," I whispered, leaning toward her, blushing and embarrassed, "I would like to know if you are engaged--if--if you are taken, I mean?" She looked at me then sharp enough. "Yes, sir, I _am_," she said calmly; "and going to be married next week." The passengers began to laugh, and I began to back out. I didn't stop at the wood-box, but retreated into the next car, where I stood until my legs ached, and then sat down by an ancient lady, with a long nose, blue spectacles, and a green veil. CHAPTER VII. I MAKE A NARROW ESCAPE. It is a serious thing to be as bashful as I am. There's nothing at all funny about it, though some people seem to think there is. I was assured, years ago, that it would wear off and betray the brass underneath; but I must have been triple-plated. I have had rubs enough to wear out a wash-board, yet there doesn't a bit of brass come to the surface yet. Beauty may be only skin-deep; modesty, like mine, pervades the grain. If I really believed my bashfulness was only cuticle-deep, I'd be flayed to-day, and try and grow a hardier complexion without any Bloom of Youth in it. No use! I could pave a ten-thousand-acre prairie with the "good intentions" I have wasted, the firm resolutions I have broken. Born to be bashful is only another way of expressing the Bible truth, "Born to trouble as the sparks are to fly upward."