disposition and a perfect profile would allow her to come.
The Reverend Homer poked his ermine-lined face through the doorway and added a concordance to the conversation.
“Sometimes,” said he, “old Campos keeps the dried nuts in his little store on the hill. But it would be far better, my daughter, to restrain unusual desires, and partake thankfully of the daily dishes that the Lord has set before us.”
“Stuff!” said I.
“How was that?” asked the Reverend Homer, sharply.
“I say it's tough,” said I, “to drop into the vernacular, that Miss Greene should be deprived of the food she desires—a simple thing like kalsomine-pudding. Perhaps,” I continued, solicitously, “some pickled walnuts or a fricassee of Hungarian butternuts would do as well.”
Every one looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.
Louis Devoe arose and made his adieus. I watched him until he had sauntered slowly and grandiosely to the corner, around which he turned to reach his great warehouse and store. Chloe made her excuses, and went in-
