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 "But," I persisted, "it must be the young man in Vienna,—the one whom Mr. Tremaine wrote me about,—Roger Fisk. Is it he, Judith?" with an appealing look.

"What did Mr. Tremaine write you about him?" she asked eagerly.

"But is it he?"

"What did my guardian say about him?" she repeated with emphasis.

"I will not go another step," I exclaimed, stopping in front of the Kazan Church, "until you tell me whether it was Roger Fisk that you were talking about."

She laughed in spite of herself. "Yes, it was."

"Who would have dreamed it?" I murmured, continuing my way. "Who would have thought you were in love?"

"Come, Dorris, you are very provoking!" said my cousin, looking as if she thought of pouting. "Why don't you tell me about Mr. Tremaine's letter?"

"He only said that Mr. Fisk had written to him, but that he would consent to no engagement until you were of age."

"I shall be twenty-one in August," she cried triumphantly. "What else did he say?"

"Only that he wondered how you had succeeded in making your mutual confessions when you were in a strict boarding-school."

She laughed immoderately.

"Dorris, I have known Roger for four years."

I gazed at her blankly.