"Well, I took the red apple-skin, and whirled it three times round my head, and down it went on to the floor, curled up into the nicest capital G that you ever sat eyes on.
"Mr. Gray, he looked at the letter, and then sort of sidewise into my face. 'S. G.,' says he, taking up the apple-skin, and eating it, as if it had been the first mouthful of a Thanksgiving dinner. 'How would you like to see them two letters on a new set of silver teaspoons?'
"I re'lly believe you could have lit a candle at my face, it burned so; but I couldn't speak more than if I'd been born tongue-tied."
"But did you never answer about the spoons?" asked Julia.
"Well, yes, I believe I did, the next Sunday night," said the old lady, demurely, smoothing her apron.
What was there in Mrs. Gray's simple narrative that should have brought confusion and warm blushes into those two young faces? Why, after one hastily withdrawn glance, did neither Robert Otis nor Julia Warren look at each other again that night?
CHAPTER XXVII. STRUGGLES AND REVELS.
Wine, wine for the heart, in its struggle of pride,
And music to drown all this with'ring pain!