“Yes, I think he is,” said Rose, quietly, “just my idea of the Apollo.” “Set fire to him!” blazed Gusty. “Oh! don’t swear—please don’t”—pleaded Rose. “Why do you not like him, dear Gusty? _I_ do, I like him, and I am sure you ought to like him _because I do_—and you ought to be kind to him because, poor fellow! look at his melancholy blue eyes—” “Oh! his melancholy blue devils!” “Oh! Gusty, hush!” said she, softly, putting her hand on his lips. “But this is too trying! I be _whipped_ if it ain’t! I do believe the devil has taken my affairs under his own particular care! but I won’t put up with it! I be _whipped_ if I do! I’ll call this fellow out!” “Call him where?” “Call him _out_! fight him! thrash him! jump through him—crush him—grind him—down into an ink spot, and then erase him!” “What has he done to you, Gusty, that you hate him so, and he so beautiful, too?” “Done to me!” snapped Gusty. “Oh, Rose, shut up! you are such a fool!” This was too much for Rosalia—she had been growing softer every instant, and now melted into tears. Then Gusty’s indignation turned upon himself, called himself a barbarian, a brute, a monster, and begged Rosy to knock him down. Rose dried her morning dew tears and smiled again just as Sophie entered. A week passed away, and now but two weeks remained of the visit. A week, during which Gusty had contrived to circulate around his sun so rapidly and constantly as to prevent the comet Murphy from crossing his orbit. Still he was very unhappy in the idea of leaving his treasure unguarded—had serious thoughts of throwing up his commission—when one day on deck the young passed-midshipman, whom, by the way, he had treated very coldly at all times, placed himself by his side, and drawing his arm within his own, began to promenade the deck, saying,