Could he be mistaken? No, there was an unmistakable something in that pull upon his arm that said, _Come with me._ “Not now; just one brief moment!” “Yes, _now_. We might hurt Uncle Tom’s feelings.” “_We!_” Did she mean it? Charley gave a quick, inquiring glance. She raised her eyes and met his with a kind of shrinking frankness. “You say,” said Charley, “that we must go in to hear the adagio; but—tell me—just one little word: while they are playing that, may my heart beat in the frolic rhythm of the scherzo?” She made no reply, nor raised her head; but the same gentle pull upon his arm seemed to say,—and plainer than before,—_Come with me._ “Tell me, dearest?” “Oh, don’t bother people so!” Then, for the first time, her face, pallid before, was suffused with a sudden glory of roses. ----- [1] Reading the final proofs of this book, I find, bracketed into the text, sundry satirical observations at my expense; signed, some by Charley, others by Alice, who had undertaken to relieve me of the drudgery of the first proofs. Rather than bother the printer, I have suffered many of them to remain—for what they are worth!—_J. B. W._ [And I suffer this astounding note to remain for what _it_ is worth.—Ed.] CHAPTER XLVII. The reader can hardly be more amazed at the last chapter than is the writer,—amazed not so much at its contents as at its existence. I agree, at the close of the forty-fifth chapter, to exclude all save the loves of the Don from these pages, and then devote the whole of the forty-sixth to the amours of Charley and Alice! I break a promise almost in the act of making it. Some explanation seems proper, and one lies close at hand. Your modern Genius is an out-and-out business man. He may be trusted to furnish his publisher just so many chapters, just so many pages, paragraphs, lines, words, as shall precisely fill the space allotted him in the magazine. Nor baker with his loaves, nor grocer with his herring, could be more exact. Pegasus no longer champs his bit, as of old, nor paws the earth. He goes in shafts, in these days, and is warranted not to kick in harness. He trots up to your front door, goods are delivered, and he jogs off to another customer, his flanks cool, no foam upon rein. Now, I, being a mere Bushwhacker, bestride, of course, an untrained, shaggy mustang,—an animal sorely given to buck-jumping and to unaccountable bursts in every direction save along the beaten track. And how, pray, am I to know, astride such a disreputable prairie-Pegasus, whither I am going, and how far; and when, if ever, I may hope to return?