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told me, with tears, that her father requested me to visit that house no more. Well, at that I was somewhat taken aback; but, nevertheless, I determined to wait till the old gentleman himself should speak. You know my peculiar coolness, old chap, that which you and the rest call my happy audacity; and you may believe that it was all needed under such circumstances as these. I went to the house twice after that. Each time my little girl was half laughing with joy, half crying with fear at seeing me; and each time she urged me to keep away. She said we could write to one another. But letter-writing wasn’t in my line. So after trying in vain to obey her, I went once more in desperation to explain matters.
    â€œInstead of seeing her, I found the old fellow himself. He was simply white, hot with rage — not at all noisy, or declamatory, or vulgar — but cool, cutting, and altogether terrific. He alluded to my gentlemanly conduct in forcing myself where I had been ordered off; and informed me that if I came again he would be under the unpleasant necessity of using a horsewhip. That, of course, made me savage. I pitched into him pretty well, and gave it to him hot and heavy, but, hang it! I’m no match for fellows of that sort; he kept so cool, you know, while I was furious — and the long and the short of it is, that I had to retire in disorder, vowing on him some mysterious vengeance or other, which I have never been able to carry out.
    â€œThe next day I got a letter from her. It was awfully sad, blotted with tears, and all that. She implored me to write her, told me she couldn’t see me, spoke about her father’s cruelty and persecution — and ever so many other things not necessary to mention. Well, I wrote back, and she answered my letter, and so we got into the way of a correspondence which we kept up at a perfectly furious rate. It came hard on me, of course, for I’m not much at a pen; my letters were short, as you may suppose, but then they were full of point, and what matters quantity so long as you have quality, you know? Her letters, however, poor little darling, were long and eloquent, and full of a kind of mixture of love, hope, and despair. At first I thought that I should grow reconciled to my situation in the course of time, but, instead of that, it grew worse every day. I tried to forget all about her, but without success. The fact is, I chafed under the restraint that was on me, and perhaps it was that which was the worst of all. I dare say now if I’d only been in some other place — in Montreal, for instance — I wouldn’t have had such a tough time of it, and might gradually have forgotten about her; but the mischief of it was, I was here — in Quebec — close by her, you may say, and yet I was forbidden the house. I had been insulted and threatened. This, of course, only made matters worse, and the end of it was, I thought of nothing else. My very efforts to get rid of the bother only made it a dozen times worse. I flung myself into ladies’ society with my usual ardor, only worse; committed myself right and left, and seemed to be a model of a gay Lothario. Little did they suspect that under a smiling face I concealed a heart of ashes — yes, old boy — ashes! as I’m a living sinner. You see, all the time, I was maddened at that miserable old scoundrel who wouldn’t let me visit his daughter — me, Jack Randolph, an officer, and a gentleman, and, what is more, a Bobtail! Why, my very uniform should have been a guarantee for my honorable conduct. Then, again, in addition to this, I hankered after her, you know, most awfully. At last I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I wrote her a letter. It was only yesterday. And now, old chap, what do you think I wrote?”
    â€œI don’t know, I’m sure,” said I, mistily, “a declaration of love, perhaps — ”
    â€œA declaration of love? pooh!”