It was the eleventh of September, and the lines were—
“Retired from all, reserved, and coy,
To musing prone alone.”
Scott.
“What utter bosh!” she exclaimed, passionately; then, like all dissatisfied inquirers, she determined to cast her first resolve to the winds and have yet another experiment—one more dip into the lottery of Fate.
“I’ll see what it says for the twentieth—my wedding day, that was to have been——”
She turned to the page, and the lines were—
“He has not a shilling, nor has he a care.”
Anon.
“There, that settles it,” cried Lalla, tossing the book down and moving quickly to her writing-table.