about the man, and yet you want to fling our daughter at his head."
"So do you," said she.
"No," said he, "it isn't that; but if Phylis wants him, she—she shall have him."
"It's the same thing," said Mrs. Dunbar; "you and Phylis—she covertly, you openly—are quite mad about that man, and"—she smiled gaily—"so am I."
The maiden trip of a letter is apt to be a better managed affair than the latest excursion of an experienced globe-trotter. Phylis's letter and her father's hastened on their joint mission by train and steamer, and came to Beauling side by side on a brass platter stamped with gods, in the hands of a wrinkled Hindu, who was rather afraid of them—the letters, not the gods; familiarity breeds contempt Dunbar's letter, offering and requiring, was read first, for Beauling was a perfect child about his rice puddings, always keeping the raisins for the last. He devoured his raisin a dozen times,
