know.”

“You can inquire at my aunt’s—she will tell you.”

“My name is Gabriel Oak.”

“And mine isn’t. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak.”

“You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the most of it.”

“I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable.”

“I should think you might soon get a new one.”

“Mercy!—how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, Gabriel Oak.”

“Well Miss—excuse the words—I thought you would like them. But I can’t match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue, as I may say. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand!”

She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak’s old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. “Very well,” she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.

“I am sorry,” he said, the instant after, regretfully.

“What for?”

“Letting your hand go so quickly.”

“You may have it again if you like; there it is.” She gave him her hand again.

Oak held it longer this time—indeed, curiously long. “How soft it is—being winter time, too—not chapped or rough or anything!” he said.

“There—that’s long enough,” said she, though without pulling it away. “But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to.”

“I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,” said Gabriel, simply; “but I will——”

“That you won’t!” She snatched back her hand.

Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact.

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