"Are you, then, Emilia Fletcher?" he cried.

I nodded assent; whereupon he held out his hand and jerked his head
forward; it was evidently an attempt at courtesy. I took the hand
and laughed outright: he looked so funny with his bright eyes
twinkling beneath the tangled forelock.

"I have heard of you," he said, "and I am glad to meet you. The
other day I asked to whom the land belonged, and was told that you
were half Italian and rather eccentric. You seem to be a human
being. I am glad to have met you. My name is Gabriel Norton."

Here the big bell rang out from the house, summoning me to tea,--it
had rung once already. So the apparition and I parted company.

I wonder if he has caught cold; I am sure that I have; I have been
sneezing all the evening.

It may be very pleasant and romantic to sit on the moss with a
wood-sprite after a shower, but perhaps it is not very wise.

I must go and say good night downstairs. I left Miss Seymour reading
sentimental ballads on pauper childhood to the old ladies; it must
now be close upon their bed-time.

Good night, beloved.
Your EMILIA.

P.S. I forgot to say that he has one really fine point: his hands
are quite beautiful. I keep on wondering what you would think of