In other words, the athletic girl broke down. Books enter little into the life of this girl, yet she—may—belong to a reading society. The following (writer, an athletic girl) bears witness to that fact— “Our next Shakespeare reading is next Tuesday. Last year I never took part in them, but am going to this year, though I rather hate them. _Twelfth Night_ is the play chosen, and I have been given two rotten parts where I have to say every now and then, ‘Good my lord,’ and ‘Prithee, tell me.’” The same girl writes— “I have just read a most frightfully good book, _The Prisoner of Zenda_. It is simply the thrillingest thing that ever was written.” In another letter she writes— “Do you know the poetry of Gordon? An Australian man. All about horses. First-class.” The margin-note style is in peculiar favour with the athletic girl. The personal note is one seldom struck by this girl, and the elegiac note is one scarcely ever struck by her. Even when she has a grievance she keeps a high heart. Who but she could write— “For some extraordinary and unknown reason my head is aching. It is such a novel sensation that I rather like it.” [Illustration: A Novel Sensation] Her letter-endings take their colour from her character, real or assumed. “In haste” is much in favour with her, and I have letters from her ending “Bye, bye!” and “Ta, ta! Yours affec.” I will close this paper with a true story. In it will be shown how a lady, late an athletic girl, was wooed and—not won. Her admirer was a widower, with one child. His home overlooked the school of which this lady, young as she was—for she was only six-and-twenty—was head-mistress. The widower, on re-marrying bent, sent in his card on what was called “office day.” The name on the card was _Colonel Hewson_. The young head-mistress, whose name was Alice Joyce, read it, and gave the conventional order, “Show him in.” Alice Joyce had some slight acquaintance with Colonel Hewson, and had also some slight inkling that he admired her. She did not admire him, and would have liked to deny herself to him, but she was not authorised to do this on “office day.” Perhaps he had come to place a pupil. His only child was a boy, but, perhaps, he had girl-relations. “Show him in,” said conscientious Alice Joyce, and Colonel Hewson was shown in. “I thought you’d be surprised to see me,” he said crisply, on entering. Alice smiled, and requested him to be seated. Then she left it to him to open the talk, occupying herself with a revolving bookcase, which she gently agitated. Colonel Hewson was a bronzed man of travel, who, according to rumour, had penetrated into Asiatic jungles, and seen tigers and other undomestic animals eye to eye without blenching. He had, however, never before entered a lady’s school, and a terror the like unto which he had never experienced now held him tongue-tied.