stranger--she might have thought it too bold. Long ago, when she was a
very young girl, she had superficially studied the "science" of
chirography from articles in a magazine, and had fancied herself a judge.
She remembered disliking Mrs. Ellsworth's writing the first time she saw
it, foreseeing the selfishness which afterward enslaved her. Since then
she had had little time to practise, until the day when she heard from
"Mr. N. Smith" after her answer to his advertisement in the _Morning
Post_.

One reason for feeling sure she could never care for the man was because
his handwriting prejudiced her in advance, it was so stiff, so devoid of
character. How different, she reflected now, from the writing of the man
who had taken his place!

She made such haste in dressing that her fingers seemed to be "all
thumbs"; and when at length she was ready she gazed gloomily into the
mirror. Last night she had not been so bad in evening dress; but now in
the cheap, ready-made brown velveteen coat and skirt and plain toque to
match, which had been her "best" for two winters, she feared lest _he_
should find her commonplace.

"The first thing I do, when he's had time to look me over, must be to
tell him he's free if he wants his freedom," she decided. And she kept
her word, when in the half-deserted foyer she had shaken hands with a
young man who wore a white rose in his buttonhole. "Please tell me
frankly if you don't like me as well by daylight," she gasped.

"I like you better," he said. "You're still my white rose. See, I've
adopted it as your symbol. I shall never wear any other flower on my
coat. This is yours. No, it's _you_! And I've kept the one I took last