part I am best qualified to play. Mr. St. Ives (for that's to be my name

upon the journey) I conceive as rather a theatrical figure, and his

make-up should be to match."

"And yet there is a difficulty," said she. "If you got coarse clothes

the fit would hardly matter. But the clothes of a fine gentleman--O, it

is absolutely necessary that these should fit! And above all, with

your"--she paused a moment--"to our ideas somewhat noticeable manners."

"Alas for my poor manners!" said I. "But, my dear friend Flora, these

little noticeabilities are just what mankind has to suffer under.

Yourself, you see, you're very noticeable even when you come in a crowd

to visit poor prisoners in the Castle."

I was afraid I should frighten my good angel visitant away, and without

the smallest breath of pause went on to add a few directions as to

stuffs and colours.

She opened big eyes upon me. "O, Mr. St. Ives!" she cried--"if that is

to be your name--I do not say they would not be becoming; but for a

journey, do you think they would be wise? I am afraid"--she gave a

pretty break of laughter--"I am afraid they would be daft-like!"

"Well, and am I not daft?" I asked her.

"I do begin to think you are," said she.

"There it is, then!" said I. "I have been long enough a figure of fun.

Can you not feel with me that perhaps the bitterest thing in this

captivity has been the clothes? Make me a captive--bind me with chains

if you like--but let me be still myself. You do not know what it is to

be a walking travesty--among foes," I added bitterly.

"O, but you are too unjust!" she cried. "You speak as though any one

ever dreamed of laughing at you. But no one did. We were all pained to

the heart. Even my aunt--though sometimes I do think she was not quite

in good taste--you should have seen her and heard her at home! She took

so much interest. Every patch in your clothes made us sorry; it should

have been a sister's work."

"That is what I never had--a sister," said I. "But since you say that I

did not make you laugh----"

"O, Mr. St. Ives! never!" she exclaimed. "Not for one moment. It was all

too sad. To see a gentleman----"

"In the clothes of a harlequin, and begging?" I suggested.

"To see a gentleman in distress, and nobly supporting it," she said.

"And do you not understand, my fair foe," said I, "that even if all were

as you say--even if you had thought my travesty were becoming--I should

be only the more anxious for my sake, for my country's sake, and for the

sake of your kindness, that you should see him whom you have helped as

God meant him to be seen? that you should have something to remember him

by at least more characteristic than a misfitting sulphur-yellow suit,

and half a week's beard?"

"You think a great deal too much of clothes," she said. "I am not that

kind of girl."

"And I am afraid I am that kind of a man," said I. "But do not think of

me too harshly for that. I talked just now of something to remember by.

I have many of them myself, of these beautiful reminders, of these

keepsakes, that I cannot be parted from until I lose memory and life.

Many of them are great things, many of them are high virtues--charity,

mercy, faith. But some of them are trivial enough. Miss Flora, do you

remember the day that I first saw you, the day of the strong east wind?

Miss Flora, shall I tell you what you wore?"

We had both risen to our feet, and she had her hand already on the door

to go. Perhaps this attitude emboldened me to profit by the last seconds

of our interview; and it certainly rendered her escape the more easy.

"O, you are too romantic!" she said, laughing; and with that my sun was

blown out, my enchantress had fled away, and I was again left alone in

the twilight with the lady hens.