“Well,” said Allen Barclay, as Walter entered his room on his return from the examination, “how did you get along, Mr. Howard?”

“I came off with flying colors. Squire Griffiths asked me where the Amazon mountains were!”

“Squire Griffiths is not quite so wise as Solomon,” answered Allen Barclay, laughing, “though he looks so with his glasses on. Well, I am glad you came out all right. When shall you be ready to commence?”

“I will go in on Monday morning.”

“Very well. Then I will pack up my trunk and prepare to leave Portville by the three P. M. train.”

“I wish you were going to remain here; I shall be lonely.”

“Thank you for the compliment. I like Portville well enough, but the air is too bracing. However,” he added, in a lighter tone, “I leave behind me one who will solace you for my loss.”

“I don’t know to whom you refer,” said Walter, mystified.

“To whom could I refer but Miss Jones?”

“The young lady with ringlets,” said Walter, smiling. “I didn’t know you were interested in that quarter.”

“I won’t say whether I am or not. Be that as it may, I resign her willingly to you.”

“She pays me very little attention compared with you.”

“You flatter me. If I have attracted her attention, it is only as a schoolmaster. She professes to have literary tastes, and supposes that I am gifted in the same way. When you ascend my vacant throne her attention will be transferred to you.”

“You enchant me,” said Walter, amused. “But I am afraid I look too young to attract the young lady’s attention.”

“I will prove to the contrary. Do you see that note?” exhibiting a small billet, written on pink paper.

“What is it?”

“I will read it. You will see that it concerns both of us.”

Mr. Barclay held up the note and read in pompous tones the contents, as follows:

“Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones presents her compliments to Mr. Barclay and his friend, Mr. Howard, and hopes they will do her the honor to spend Saturday evening at her bower, that she may enjoy the rare pleasure of literary converse with congenial spirits.”

“Quite a high-flown invitation,” said Walter. “What does she mean by her bower?”

“Only her apartment in the hotel. It is a poetic designation, that’s all.”

“Who will be present?”

“Only her brother.”

“Is he poetical too?”

“Far from it. He won’t take much part in the conversation. Such remarks as he may venture to make will be prosaic enough.”

“I see by the letters R. S. V. P., which she puts at the bottom, that she expects a reply.”

“I am not much used to social etiquette. I am ashamed to say I didn’t know what the letters meant.”

“They stand for RÉpondez, s’il vous plaÎt--Answer, if you please.”

“I will remember that the next time a fashionable young lady writes to me.”

“I suppose you have not answered the invitation then?”

“No; I did not understand the letters, and thought it would do well enough to answer verbally when we met to-morrow morning at the breakfast table.”

“Will you allow me to draft the answer, Mr. Barclay?”

“Certainly, Mr. Howard. I shall be very glad to have you do so.”

“I will write it, and, as the answer should come from you, you can copy it if you like.”

“Very well. You will find pens and paper on the table.”

Walter sat down to the table with a twinkle of merriment in his eyes, and dashed off the following reply:

“Mr. Barclay and Mr. Howard are deeply indebted to Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones for her kind invitation, and will have pleasure in visiting her Amaranthine bower at the time appointed, and trust that they may be inspired by the muses, whose favorite haunt it is, to hold appropriate converse with the fair occupant, exchanging thoughts that breathe and words that burn.”

“What do you think of that?” asked Walter, reading it aloud to his companion.

“You have beaten her with her own weapons,” said Barclay, laughing. “She will be delighted. I hope, by the way, that you will carry some Russia salve, in case the burns should prove severe.”

“The burns are only metaphorical. They won’t be uncomfortable.”

“I think you had better answer the epistle yourself, Mr. Howard. I feel a little modest about taking the credit of so high-flown a production.”

“Let it go in my handwriting then. It purports to be from us both.”

Walter sat down again, and copied his epistolary effort in his best hand.

“Now how shall we get it to the young lady?” he asked.

“Edward, the errand boy, will call at the door in a few minutes to bring back my clean clothes from the wash. I have just sent him. We will get him to carry it this evening.”

“Very well.”

In fifteen minutes Edward tapped at the door. He brought in the bundle of clothes, and was about going out, when Allen Barclay intrusted the note to him with directions.

“Leave it this evening,” he said.

“All right!” said Edward, with a grin of intelligence. “I s’pose it’s very important, Mr. Barclay?”

“No, it’s only about an invitation.”

Edward nodded knowingly, as if to say, “I know all about it.”

“That fellow will report that I am courting Miss Jones,” said Barclay, laughing as he went out.

“I thought he looked knowing.”

“Yes; he thinks he is very sharp. However, I shan’t trouble myself much about what reports he puts in circulation. It won’t affect me particularly, as I am going away so soon.”

“I am safe enough,” said Walter.

“How do you make that out?”

“I mean that I am too young to give countenance to any such reports.”

“I am not sure about that. You look older than you are.”

“How much older?” asked Walter, who liked to be considered above his real age.

“I have seen boys of seventeen--I beg pardon, I should say young men to a teacher in prospective--who looked no older than you.”

“I saw false mustaches advertised in some paper the other day for seventy-five cents. Don’t you think it would be well to provide myself with one?”

“There might be a little danger of its slipping off some day, and that might prove awkward, you know.”

“I rather think it would,” said Walter, laughing. “Well, I will save my seventy-five cents, and wait till nature provides me with the genuine article, warranted to stick fast.”

“That will be better, I think.”

“Have you any idea as to Miss Jones’ age?” inquired Walter.

“I see you are getting interested in her. Evidently her ringlets have done the business for you.”

“I deny the charge,” said Walter. “I only felt a little curious.”

“I can gratify your curiosity. Miss Jones calls herself twenty-one, but her brother, who is very apt to make blunders, made some allusion one day fixing her age at twenty-seven. I thought she would have boxed his ears. I shall not soon forget her look of anger and annoyance. She took occasion the next day to refer to herself as twenty-one; but, as the boys say, it was too thin. However, she fancies we are all deceived, and I allow her to think that I consider her youthful.”

“What sort of an evening shall we have?”

“Very literary. Perhaps Miss Jones will read us one of her poems.”

“Does she write poetry?”

“She calls it poetry.”

“What do you call it?”

“I can’t find any appropriate name.”

“Did she ever have any of her verses printed?”

“She frequently hints that she has appeared in print, but she never showed me any of her printed poems. I have no doubt she has offered her verses in various directions, but editors are flinty-hearted sometimes, and I fear they have dropped her contributions into the waste-basket.”

“After all you have said, I feel considerably curious to pass an evening at the bower. But I am afraid the remembrance of the intellectual evening before you will give you an added pang in leaving Portville.”

“I can stand it,” said Barclay, smiling.

“True, you can correspond. I did not think of that.”

“Nor I. Mr. Howard, I could not respond to her letters in fitting language. You could do it better than I.”

“Is that a compliment? Thank you,” said Walter, with a low bow.

When he went to bed that night, there were two events to which he looked forward with interest. One was, his entrance upon his duties as teacher on Monday morning; the other, his visit to the bower of Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones on the following evening.