Roger led his companion to talk; and the theme Which he chose, was herself, her life story. The dream Of the previous night was forgotten. The charm Of the woman outweighed superstitious alarm. 

 When the sunlight began to play peek-a-boo Through the tunnels, which told them the journey was through, Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay Bend Left in just twenty minutes; but what a rude end To the day's pleasant comradeship—rushing away With a hurried good-bye! He decided to stay Over night in the city. He was not expected At home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected, And almost a stranger in Gotham. He ought To see her safe into her doorway, he thought. At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile; "I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while, Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I say Good-bye with reluctance." 

 "Perhaps, then, I may Call and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to fall Of themselves from his lips; words he longed to recall When once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knew That the one word for him to speak now, was adieu. The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested still In his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrill From the finger tips quickened his pulses. 

"Perhaps, then, I may

 "You may Call to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped away And left his palm lonely. 

"You may

 "The call must be brief," He said to himself, with a sense of relief, As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes." Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger Montrose From New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine. A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine, To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain. (The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.) It was ten when he rose for departure. The room Seemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom. The lights with their soft rosy coverings made A glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade. The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty, And life was a rapture of love and of beauty. 

"The call must be brief,"

 God knows how it happened; they never knew how. He turned with a formal conventional bow, And some well chosen words of politeness, to go. Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snow Of her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet. In the tip of each finger he felt his heart beat, Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his own. 

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