going along alone past Cammermeyers, and they addressed her. At first she answered rebuffingly; but one of the jovial spirits, a man who neither feared fire nor water, asked her right to her face if he might not have the civilised enjoyment of accompanying her home? He would, by the Lord, not hurt a hair on her head, as the saying goes–only go with her to her door, reassure himself that she reached home in safety, otherwise he could not rest all night. He talked incessantly as they went along, hit upon one thing or another, dubbed himself Waldemar Atterdag, and represented himself as a photographer. At last she was obliged to laugh at this merry soul who refused to be rebuffed by her coldness, and it finally ended by his going with her.
"Indeed, did it? and what came of it?" I inquired; and I held my breath for his reply.
"Came of it? Oh, stop there; there is a lady in question."
We both kept silent a moment, both "Missy" and I.
"Well, I'm hanged, was that 'the Duke'? So that's what he looks like," he added, reflectively. "Well, if she is in contact with that
