She opened her eyes. She was no longer there. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. I’m taking no chances. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate.
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