“Ah, you are the same dear old Alice still,” cried Lucy, leaning forward, and, with laughing lips, kissing her on the cheek. “And you fell in love with the graceful stranger?” “Yes, indeed,—that is, as much as was becoming in a young woman of eighteen summers. By the way, Lucy, you too have reached that dignified age since I last saw you. Don’t you begin to feel ancient? I do. We shall soon be old maids.” “And the romantic stranger, in that event?” asked I. “He, I suppose, will go hurl himself dismally off Mayo’s bridge. By the way, yonder he comes now.” I am aware that the barest insinuation of the kind is flouted and scouted by the lovelier portion of mankind; but among men it is always frankly admitted that women are not destitute of curiosity. “Yonder he comes now,” said I, languidly, as one who had dined well. Two lovely heads shot instantly out of the window. “Where? where?” “There,” said I; “that tall chap with the heavy beard, on the other side of the street.” “Well, upon my word,” cried Alice, “’tis the very man! How on earth did you know it was he? You didn’t? Really and truly? How strange! Oh, if he would only cross the street and walk past our window! There, I believe—no—yes, here he comes across! How nice! What on earth makes him carry his hat in his hand?” “Is that really your graceful friend?” asked I, growing interested. “It is certainly he; I am sure I am not mistaken.” The Unknown was crossing the street in a very leisurely, or rather abstracted, manner, evidently absorbed in thought,—or the lack of it,—for extremes meet. With hat in hand and chin pressed upon his breast, he sauntered along with the air of one who is going nowhere, and cares not when he reaches his destination. When he reached the lamp-post at the corner, not over twenty or thirty yards from where we stood, he stopped, hung his hat on the back of his head, and drew from his breast-pocket a pencil and a piece of stiff-looking paper. This he held against the lamp-post, and appeared to write or draw. We drew back a little from the window. “What on earth is he going to do?” exclaimed Alice. “He is doubtless inditing an ode,” said I, “in commemoration of last week’s romantic interview. ‘Lines to a fallen angel,’ perhaps.” This witticism passed unheeded. “The man’s crazy!” said Alice. The Unknown had thrown his head back, and, with his eyes nearly closed, was gently tapping the air with the pencil in a kind of rhythm. “Did you ever!” ejaculated Alice. “Did you ever!” echoed Lucy. “Well, I never!” mocked I. “St!” We drew still farther away from the window. He was going to pass us. Pencil and paper are again in breast-pocket, hat in hand, chin upon breast. “Isn’t he nice and tall!” “Yes; and what shoulders!” “How strong he looks; and without an ounce of superfluous flesh!” “How distinguished-looking!”