If you find time to-day, step into my library and look at the picture.

It's on the mantel, and the door is open.

It may be some one you know, though I doubt even that." With this I brazenly snatched a pink rose from those within her arm.
"You see Fatty Budlow is coming on," I remarked of this bit of boldness.
"Let him come--he shan't find _me_ in the way." This with an effort to seem significant.
"Oh, not at _all_!" I assured her politely, and with equal subtlety, I believe.
Had I known that this was the last time I should ever look upon Miss Katharine Lansdale, I might have looked longer.

She was well worth seeing for sundry other reasons than her need for common-sense shoes.
But those last times pass so often without our suspecting them! And it was, indeed, my good fortune never to see her again.

For never again was she to rise, even at her highest, above Miss Kate.
She was even so low as Little Miss when I found her on my porch that afternoon--a troubled Little Miss, so drooping, so queerly drawn about the eyes, so weak of mouth, so altogether stricken that I was shot through at sight of her.
"I waited here--to speak alone--you are late to-day." I was early, but if she had waited, she would of course not know this.
"What has happened, Miss Kate ?" "Come here." Through my opened door I followed her quick step.
"You were jesting about that this morning,"-- she pointed to the picture, propped open against a book on the mantel; and then, with an effort to steady her voice,--"you were jesting, and of course you didn't know--but you shouldn't have jested." "Can it be you, Miss Kate--can it really be you ?" "It is, it is--couldn't you see?
Tell me quickly--don't, don't jest again!" "Be sure I shall not.