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 he was trying to find words in which to describe Miss Woodroffe. If that were so, he did not succeed. After a minute he went on again, without attempting to give me any portraiture of the heroine of his story.

"Upon my word, Mary, I can't tell how it happened. All I know is that she was the most charming woman I ever saw in my life. We talked a great deal during dinner, and we talked a great deal after dinner; and the more she talked, and the more I looked at her, the more I thought with disgust of my solitary existence. Somehow or other, before I got up next morning I had made up my mind that I would try to persuade her to become my wife. All this, of course, is very commonplace; plenty of men, I suppose, even some men of fifty-five, must have had the same sort of experience. Now comes the part of the story which I think must belong to me alone. Do you remember how, years ago, I persuaded you to let me send some of your handwriting to a lady who professed to know all about the people whose writing she was allowed to examine? I sent yours and some others; do you remember?"

"Yes," I answered, "I remember very well; and we thought the characters sent back were wonderfully true."

"We did," said John emphatically, "and that was the mischief of it. Some time after that I had a housekeeper whom I suspected of cheating me, and I sent a note of hers to Miss Harris by way of clearing up my opinion of her. Miss Harris wrote back that she was civil and plausible, but not to be trusted; and sure enough after a time I detected her in downright robbery. Upon my word, Mary, if I did believe in Miss Harris, I had good reason, and I'm not so very sure yet that she doesn't deserve to be believed in. Well, now, what do you think I did? I determined to get a note from Miss Woodroffe, and send it to Miss Harris, before I took another step in the affair. Miss Woodroffe, as it happened, was to stay at the Joddrells' for two or three weeks; and before a week was over I had managed to get a note of two or three lines from her. This I sent to Miss Harris, and I can show you the answer I received."

Here John took from his pocket a lettercase, or pocket-book, from which, after some turning over of the papers it contained, he drew out a much-worn letter, and handed it to me. It began "The handwriting of the note, of which you have requested my opinion, is a very remarkable one; it expresses in the strongest degree the qualities of a noble and refined character. The writer has a clear brain, an affectionate heart, and great rectitude of mind; she talks well, and neither too much nor too little." There was a good deal more in the same style, describing such a paragon of our sex that I really felt an inch or two taller for the reading of it.

"If Miss Woodroffe was all that," I said, "I can't imagine how you ever let her go."

"She was," he answered; "at any rate, I have no reason to doubt it."

He put the paper back in its place, and went on:—

"I think I may say that I lost no time after that. She was friendly from the beginning. About four weeks after our first meeting I asked her to marry me, and she said 'Yes.' Upon my word, Mary, if I had been twenty-five instead of fifty-five, I don't think I could have been happier. She was just going away from the Joddrells', and before she went I told her all about Miss Harris, and what a thorough belief I had in her skill. Miss Woodroffe laughed at me, but unfortunately I was quite convinced that my belief was well founded, and quite determined to persuade her to think so too.

"She went away, and of course I wrote to her. In one of my first letters I sent her the one I have just shown you, and I begged her to send my handwriting also to Miss Harris for her own satisfaction. You see I felt quite safe in doing this, because the description of me which had been sent at the time, you remember, had been rather flattering. On that occasion Miss Harris had declared that I 'was of an amiable temper, liberal but trustworthy.' I remember the words well, and I thought it could do me nothing but good if such an account of me found its way to Miss Woodroffe.

"What fools people are! The woman was a rank impostor, of course, as I found afterwards to my cost, and as I ought to have known then, but I did really believe in her. Could you have guessed it?"

"Well, no," I answered, "I really don't think I should have believed it—only you know, John, you shrewd men can be so dreadfully credulous. Why, I remember a friend of my husband's who doubted everything, and yet he believed in Madame Blavatsky."

John grunted. He did not seem to like