visible again.

Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt
more of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very
friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some
poems of his--some serious and sad--some humorous--which had
appeared in the poets' corner of a magazine from time to time. Owen
showed them now to Cytherea, who instantly began to read them
carefully and to think them very beautiful.

'Yes--Springrove's no fool,' said Owen sententiously.

'No fool!--I should think he isn't, indeed,' said Cytherea, looking
up from the paper in quite an excitement: 'to write such verses as
these!'

'What logic are you chopping, Cytherea? Well, I don't mean on
account of the verses, because I haven't read them; but for what he
said when the fellows were talking about falling in love.'

'Which you will tell me?'

'He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself engaged to
a sweetheart, like a man who has caught something in the dark. He
doesn't know whether it is a bat or a bird, and takes it to the
light when he is cool to learn what it is. He looks to see if she
is the right age, but right age or wrong age, he must consider her a
prize. Sometime later he ponders whether she is the right kind of
prize for him. Right kind or wrong kind--he has called her his, and
must abide by it. After a time he asks himself, "Has she the