Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. " "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. Go to her and tell her. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Forgive me?” She pleaded. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality.
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