I o o ticularity of  t—not Suky ta a girl ory, es and likings. No once I see o me in face and figure sand, as if for t time,  is t Rico do. I place my face against t of my bed and c isfaction, turning a little to t, a little to t, brus, settling ably into ty could see me! s be ing for  dark t, tless s be, as ss off t keep tle fin-gersmits, taking out some small t of gaudy curning it, over and over, in her hands . . .

    Surn it for ever, t kno yet. Nor does Sue suppose t t time ss  of all her life.

    I t; and I am gripped  I take to be pity. It is , and am afraid. Afraid of ure may cost me. Afraid of t future itself, and of tions  might be filled.

    S kno.  not kno, eit

    afternoon—comes, as o come, in takes my o kiss my knuckles. Miss Lilly/ one of caress. ly; yet carries   of urns to Sue, and ssey. tiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in,  tumble togeto ses it. But I see, too, t eness of o me. o all, and darker t. akes  ends almost to t. ress, Sue.

    S too, sir. I take a step. She is a very good girl, I say. A very good girl, indeed.

    But ty, imperfect. c  be good. No girl could , Miss Lilly, h you for her example.

    You are too kind, I say.

    No gentleman could but be, I to be kind to. , found sympato pluck me from t of Briar, unscratc be myself, niece to my uncle, if I could meet t feeling tir of some excitement, dark and a. But I feel it too  queasy. I smile; but tretcigilts  my o makes tigill, I begin to feel it as an