was the old post-road--though its builders would not have
recognized it with its asphalt surface, straightened curves, and
easy grades--to ask his idol to christen the Callisto when it
should be finished.

Starting from the upper end of Central Park, he stopped to buy
her a bunch of violets, and then ran to Poughkeepsie in two
hours.

Sylvia Preston was a lovely girl, with blue eyes, brown hair, and
perfect figure, clear white skin, and just twenty. She was
delighted to see him, and said she would love to christen the
Callisto or do anything else that he wished. "But I am so sorry
you are going away," she went on. "I hate to lose you for so
long, and we shall not even be able to write."

"Why couldn't we be married now," he asked, "and go to Jupiter
for our honeymoon?"

"I'm afraid, dear," she answered, "you would be sorry a few years
hence if I didn't take my degree; and, besides, as you have asked
those other men, there wouldn't be room for me."

"We could have made other arrangements," he replied, "had I been
able to persuade you to go."

"Won't you dine with us at Delmonico's this evening, and go to
the play?" she asked. "Papa has taken a box."

"Of course I will," he said, brightening up. "What are you going