Elsie shook her head.
"No, I haven't, Jack," she said, and then she sat down in the chair and told him the whole story.
He listened with a grave face right to the very end, and then bent over and kissed her.
"I'm glad I didn't shoot the hawk," he said. "Still, you know, Elsie dear, it was only a dream."
But Elsie knew better.
The Bronze-Haired Girl
"If you will pass me my guitar," said George, "I will sing to you."
"I would rather you washed up," I replied. "It would be more of a novelty."
"For one who professes to be an artist," returned George, with unruffled serenity, "you are painfully lacking in sensibility. A man who can speak of washing up ten minutes after tea on a golden June evening——"