ours, Grace Carter, a girl of the light, subtly graceful English type
and a gay confidence of leadership, came across the room.

"O Mr. Haviland," she cried, "I've been watching your dolorous
expression till I determined to learn how you do it!"

I half smiled at her, helplessly.

"It is thoroughly fifth-act. The young man looks that way when he
marches around in the limelight moonlight contemplating the approach of
the catastrophe. But what have you to do with catastrophes? Off the
stage men only have that desperate look when they are in love. I trust
you are safe, Mr. Haviland."

She looked so arch that I could not help a laugh, though the effect
jarred on my mood.

"You will find me dull, I am afraid," I answered.

"That's of no consequence. Self-education is my mission. Believe me, I
thirst for this knack of lugubriousness."

I would have resented the trifling at that moment from almost any person
but Grace. She divined my discomfort, veered her questioning to College
affairs, and detailed to me some amusing information on dances and
engagements, to which I listened with what attention I could. But my
eyes persisted in resting oftener and oftener on Alexandra, and some
bread baked by her and Annie,--a triumph of amateur housekeeping--being
passed by the latter in pieces among the cake, I imagined that it tasted
like the sacrament, and utterly lost track of what the merry girl was