With a complexion that serves one such ill turns as mine does, one is not over-fond of _facing_ people.

I am beside her.

For a moment we are both silent.
"Well," say I, presently, with an unintentional tartness in my tone, "why do not you begin?
I am waiting to hear all about it! Begin!" So Barbara begins.
"I am afraid," she says, smiling all the while, but growing as red as the bunch of late roses in my breast, "that I looked horribly _pleased_! One ought to look as if one did not care, ought not one ?" "Ought one ?" say I, with interest, then beginning to laugh vociferously.
"At least you were not as bad as the old maid who late in life received a very wealthy offer, and was so much elated by it that she took off all her clothes, and kicked her bonnet round the room!" Barbara laughs.
"No, I was not quite so bad as that." "And how did he do it ?" pursue I, inquisitively.

"Did he write or speak" "He spoke." "And what did he say?
How did he word it?
Ah!"-- (with a sigh)--"I suppose you will not tell me _that_ ?" She has abandoned her chair, and has fallen on her knees before me, hiding her face in my lap.

Delicious waves of color, like the petals of a pink sweet-pea, are racing over her cheeks and throat.
"Was ever any one known to tell it ?" she says, indistinctly.
"Yes," reply I, "_I_ was.