She is brown, you know--a real 'nut-brown mayde,'" said John, recovering his gay humour.

"Certainly, I like to look at her.

I have seen many a face that was more good-looking--never one that looked half so good." "Sententious that;" yet I could not smile--he spoke with such earnestness.

Besides, it was the truth.

I myself would have walked half-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March.