And we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.”
Harduppe.—Yes, you can have this paper posted free to you for a year if you send us three yearly subscribers. Thanks for kind wishes.
“Oh,” said Dolly, “you’ll really have to do something about Mervyn’s hair, Phyl. You know there really was a letter, this month.” She reached it out of the pigeon-hole that was marked—“Answers to Correspondents,” and that always stood empty.
In the first chapter of “The Master of Malbrook Court,” Phyl had said that “the morning sunshine streamed into the room and turned to burnished gold the sunny hair of Mervyn Malbrook.” And alas! in the seventh she had written, “Overcome with anguish Mervyn bowed her dusky head upon her hands and gave herself up to a fit of bitter weeping.”
An anonymous correspondent, possibly one of those undergraduates, wrote to point out the mistake.
“Lover of Truth,” wrote Phyl now, on that correspondence column. “We sorrowfully note the discrepancy you speak of. Mervyn’s tresses have certainly changed in some mysterious way during the course of seven months from gold to raven. We [252] ]had hitherto had rather a high opinion of the young person’s character but now we feel reluctantly compelled to admit she must have been of a designing nature and had some hair dye or Peerless Gloss among her toilet appliances.”