THE WISHING WELL.
"My friends generally call me Tony," said a voice, the youthful growl of which was subdued to all possible softness.
"We have known each other such a little while," replied Pamela, looking down at the ground, which had begun to cover itself in the flying gold of the autumn woods.
"As the calendar counts; but we—'we count time by heart-throbs'—doesn't somebody say that?"
A colour, like a pink rose-leaf, warmed in Pamela's clear cheek.
"We have become very good friends," she said, "seeing that it is only six—or is it seven?—weeks ago since we met."
"It is eight," said the youth. "I came in mid-July, and now it is mid-September. But it sometimes seems to me that I have always been here, and that my life elsewhere was but a dream."
"Tell me what you wished for?"
"If that were so," she said demurely—and for a moment the violet eyes looked up at him under their shadow of night—"if that were so, then I might really call you by your name, Sir Anthony. But it is too soon."