you often to-day before I came myself, but I fear that among your
June-day occupations there has not been one thought of me."

She had only time to say, sotto voce, "Girls don't tell everything,"
when the maid announced, from the door, "Mr. Strahan."

This second comer was a young man precociously mature after a
certain style. His home was a fine old place in the vicinity, but
in his appearance there was no suggestion of the country; nor did
he resemble the violet, although he was somewhat redolent of the
extract of that modest flower. He was dressed in the extreme of
the prevailing mode, and evidently cultivated a metropolitan air,
rather than the unobtrusive bearing of one who is so thoroughly a
gentleman that he can afford to be himself. Mr. Strahan was quite
sure of his welcome, for he felt that he brought to the little
cottage a genuine Madison-avenue atmosphere. He was greeted with
the cordiality which made Miss Vosburgh's drawing-room one of the
pleasantest of lounging-places, whether in town or country; and
under his voluble lead conversation took the character of fashionable
gossip, which would have for the reader as much interest as
the presentation of some of the ephemeral weeds of that period.
But Mr. Strahan's blue eyes were really animated as he ventured
perilously near a recent scandal in high life. His budget of news
was interspersed with compliments to his hostess, which, like the
extract on his handkerchief, were too pronounced. Mr. Lane regarded
him with politely veiled disgust, but was too well-bred not to
second Miss Vosburgh's remarks to the best of his ability.

Before long two or three more visitors dropped in. One from the hotel
was a millionnaire, a widower leisurely engaged in the selection of