“It’s just like a beehive, this town,” spoke Mabel, as she paused a moment in Broadway near the Astor House to try and discover the ticket-office of the Michigan Southern Railway.
“Such a crowd makes my head swim,” said the old man, who was leaning on her arm.
“Well, I’ll ask somebody where the ticket-office is,” added Mabel.
And she did ask somebody, and that somebody happened to be no other than Harry Fletcher, Jr., who was on his way down town with his father. Right cordial was the meeting between them.
“I have often thought of you,” said Harry.
“Indeed! Well, the morning we first met was a blissful morning for you—was it not?” returned Mabel, with a laughing gleam in her eye. “Pray, sir, how is Miss Gibbon?”
“Oh! extremely well. She is now in Philadelphia, bidding good-by to some friends, for we sail shortly for Europe.”
“But you will not really settle abroad, as you once told me?” said Mabel. Then, with a little hesitation, she added: “Men like you, sir, ought to live in their own country.”
“You are more eloquent than you imagine,” answered the youth. “But I have promised Miss Gibbon that we should make our home in Paris.”
Here Mr. Fletcher senior shook his head, while Mabel’s grandparent observed: “Why, young man, isn’t this country big enough for you?”