"I should think not; interviewing requires bravery. Do you suppose she will interview me?"
"Never in the world. She will not think you of enough importance."
"You will see," said Ralph. "She will send a description of us all, including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she is capable of it, then."
"Perfectly."
"And yet you have made her your bosom-friend?"
"I have not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her, in spite of her faults."
"Ah, well," said Ralph, "I am afraid I shall dislike her, in spite of her merits."
"You will probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, proved to be, as Isabel had said, decidedly pretty. She was a fair, plump person, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back of her head, and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, who was somewhat disconcerted by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which seemed to indicate that it would not be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. She was very well dressed, in
