THE Butternut Grand Hotel was large and white; with a hundred windows, all of the same size, equidistant, and in four parallel rows. Had any one of them been unfinished, like the window in Aladdin's tower, it need not have so remained; with a few hours' work any joiner could have evened it up with the rest. A huge verandah surrounded the structure, roofed above the second story; and up and down the painted floor of this verandah a score of pairs of young ladies promenaded. Young ladies they were called in the society columns of the summer Sunday papers; speaking colloquially, one might have called them girls. Vane's black suit was dusty, and in his travel-stained condition it was embarrassing to be the object of young feminine eyes; but as most of them stopped their walk to observe his entrance, there was nothing for it but to cast his own eyes down, and walk modestly through the line. It was a worse gantlet than the Calais pier. Vane went to the office to ask for his room; but it was some minutes before the clerk, who was talking with another gentleman, could give him his attention. When he did so he scanned Vane rudely before replying, and at last, as he opened his lips to answer, two of the young ladies from the piazza rushed in to ask for their mail, and, pushing Vane slightly aside, engaged the clerk's attention. "Now, Mr. Hitchcock, you don't mean to tell me you have no letters for _me_?" said one. The other looked at Vane while she spoke, as, indeed, did the speaker. When the clerk began sorting the heap of letters which had just come in the coach, Vane acquired the flattering conviction that the mail was but a pretext, and himself the cause. "There are none, indeed, Miss Morse," said the clerk; and the girls fluttered gaily out. "I'll write you one myself, if you'll wait," added the clerk jocosely. But the only reply to this was a Parthian glance from Miss Morse, which embraced Vane in its orbit. The clerk looked after them with a smile, and then, after meditating a moment, turned to Vane. "Now, what can I do for you, sir?" "I believe I engaged a room." "What name?" "Vane." "Three twelve," said the clerk, and turned back to his first interlocutor, who had been standing silent in the meantime, chewing a toothpick and regarding the opposite wall.