"Mean!" echoed Harding. "I mean she of the royal brow and starry eyes, Mildred Brewster."
"Thank God," said Ashley with a great sigh of relief.
"And why do you thank God?" asked Harding.
"Because," said Ashley, "to me Mabel is the dainty, the divine one. She comes upon the eye as a perfect soprano voice smites on a musical ear."
"You are growing musical, are you?" said Harding. "Well then, the other is a celestial contralto, deep-toned and full and sweet, materialized."
After this both were silent for a moment and then Ashley began to laugh low to himself.
"What is your hilarity occasioned by?" asked Harding.
"I was thinking what fools we have been making of ourselves," said Ashley.
"And how did you reach that estimate, pray?" asked Harding.
"Why, Harding," was the answer, "an hour ago we met two ladies. They were not what we expected to find, and they brought a sort of enchantment to us. We saw them first an hour ago; we will to-morrow see them once more, and that will be all; and still we have been raving like two lunatics for the past half hour about them."
"You are right," was the sad reply. "See yonder on the street corner."
Just then a dainty carriage and a set of heavy trucks met on the corner and passed each other, the carriage turning to the east, the trucks to the west.
"Typical, is it not?" said Ashley. "The trucks go west--at least they will to-morrow night."
"Most true," said Harding, "and still I think I would like to kiss the carpet that has been sanctified by the footfalls of Mildred Brewster."
Ashley reached out, seized Harding's wrist and felt his pulse.
"You have got it bad, Harding," said he, "and I don't feel very well myself. If poor Corrigan were alive again and here we would get him to tell us about Maggie Murphy."
"We have had a mirage, Ashley. Let us pray that it will soon pass by," said Harding.
And then without another word being spoken, they returned to the hospitable house of Hartwell.
The following is the copy of a letter written by Mrs. Wolcott to the widow of her deceased husband's brother, Mrs. Abby Roberts, of Eastport, Maine:
MY DEAR SISTER:--I wrote you briefly of the dispatch announcing the death of my brother James, in a Nevada mine, and that his embalmed body was being brought home by two miners. Since then events have crowded upon me so swiftly that I have not had composure enough to think of writing.