a slight cry and clutched her father's arm.
Mr. Hopkins stayed the play of his squared
elbows and glanced inquiringly at his daugh-
ter's face. There was a pretty animation in
it, as she pointed to a figure that had just
entered. It was that of a young man at-
tired in the extravagance rather than the
taste of the prevailing fashion, which did
not, however, in the least conceal a decided
rusticity of limb and movement. A long
mustache, which looked unkempt, even in
its pomatumed stiffness, and lank, dark
hair that had bent but never curled under
the barber's iron, made him notable even in
that heterogeneous assembly.

"That's he," whispered Phœbe

"Who?" said her father.

Alas for the inconsistencies of love! The
blush came with the name and not the vis-
ion.

"Mr. Hooker," she stammered.

It was, indeed, Jim Hooker. But the
rôle of his exaggeration was no longer the
same; the remorseful gloom in which he had
been habitually steeped had changed into a
fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more
in keeping with his fashionable garments.
He was more peaceful, yet not entirely

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