One learns to sit up. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days.
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