“Harry’s nose turns up, that’s true; but _so did he_, yesterday, and with his umbrella, which kept you and me dry, while he ran home in the rain. Somebody else was afraid of getting his _curls_ wet. I’ll tell you what it is, Mary, _I_ like a boy that carries my books for me and gives me peaches and French candy and oranges and things; but _you_ want one with a novelly name and a ‘chiselled nose,’ as you call it,—a _pretty_ boy, in fact.” All which Mary denied With some heat, and they had a tiff and “didn’t speak” for five long and weary minutes. Alice phrased the same idea differently some years later. “Mary, I’ll tell you the difference between you and myself. Your idea of a husband is a man whom _you_ can adore; mine must adore _me_.” Alice blundered,—blundered through over-zeal for her friend’s welfare. She knew Mary’s nature in its every recess; she erred through not knowing human nature as well. She was only eighteen; hence her knowledge of mankind was special rather than general. She knew the exaltation of Mary’s imagination, and felt the danger of her fervid fancy’s laying hold of such a man as the Don, and converting him into a demi-god by the alchemy of her fresh, girlish heart. But generalization is not a trait of the feminine mind. When we hear that some one admires us, we—all of us—instinctively give that person credit for good taste and discernment,—_that_, she of the hazel eyes overlooked. Now, good taste and discernment are admirable traits; how, then, other things being favorable, can we help admiring our admirers? “Good-night!” answered Mary; and the two fair heads lay side by side, deep-sunk in vast, beruffled pillows. Alice, fatigued by the day’s journey, fell asleep almost immediately. Her companion, though her eyes were closed, lay thinking. Ah, little Alice, you have sadly blundered! Mary is thinking of what you have said to her—ransacking her brain for confirmation of your suggestion. “Yes, I did remark his looking at me several times at dinner; but what of that? People can look at other people without being in love with them. And—yes, I did think his eyes wore a very intense look; but then they always glow like coals. How beautiful they are!” [Oh, Alice! Alice!!] “terribly beautiful! Oh, if he but hated you!” And she shivered. Lying, as she was, locked in Alice’s arms, the nervous, rippling movement of her body slightly disturbed the latter’s slumbers; but she merely drew a long breath and exhaled it again with force,—taking a fresh hold, as it were, on sleep.