pretty, small maiden of twenty-five, neatly dressed in a clean
print gown, and looking like a dewy daisy. Her eyes were
blue, her hair the color of ripe corn, and her cheeks were of
a delicate rose. There was something pastoral about Peggy,
smacking of meadow lands and milking time. She should have
been a shepherdess looking after her flock rather than a girl
toiling in a dingy office. How such a rural flower ever
sprung up amongst London houses was a mystery Jennings could
not make out. And according to her own tale, Peggy had never
lived in the country. What with the noise of fiddling which
came from the large hall, and the fact of being absorbed in
her work, Peggy never heard the entrance of her lover.
Jennings stole quietly towards her, admiring the pretty
picture she made with a ray of dusky sunlight making glory of
her hair.

"Who is it?" he asked, putting his hands over her eyes.

"Oh," cried Peggy, dropping her pen and removing his hands,
"the only man who would dare to take such a liberty with me.
Miles, my darling pig!" and she kissed him, laughing.

"I don't like the last word, Peggy!"

"It's Papa Le Beau's favorite word with his pupils," said
Peggy, who always spoke of the dancing-master thus.

"With the addition of darling?"

"No, that is an addition of my own. But I can remove it if