brought from the city to please her,--and wished there was more of it
all when it was through.

"What next?" said Willie.

"Heaven preserve us! your favorite subject. Who would expect to tumble
on such a theme here?--'Slavery; by Francesca Ercildoune.' Odd
name,--and, by Jove! it's the beauty herself."

They both leaned forward eagerly as she came from her seat; slender,
shapely, every fibre fine and exquisite, no coarse graining from the
dainty head to the dainty foot; the face, clear olive, delicate and
beautiful,--

"The mouth with steady sweetness set,
And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there,"--

eyes deep, tender, and pathetic.

"What's this?" said Tom. "Queer. It gives me a heartache to look at
her."

"A woman for whom to fight the world, or lose the world, and be
compensated a million-fold if you died at her feet," thought Surrey, and
said nothing.

"What a strange subject for her to select!" broke in Tom.