“She has written me to be under her window this evening.”
“Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?”
“Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, 'be under my window.'”
“Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such things.”
“Of course not, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “you're only a boy, you know.”
“Are you going to be under her window, Nich,--I mean Mr. Benton?”
“Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power could prevent my doing it.”
“Then I had better leave you,” said Paul, making a movement to go.
“No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel--a little agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love,” added Mr. Benton, complacently.
“Well,” said Paul, “I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for they will wonder at home what has become of me.”
“Yes, it's only in the next street,” said Mr. Benton, “O, Paul, how my heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!”
Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.
“You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night, and I will stand by you.”
Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best not to say so.
By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.
“That's the house,” said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.
“Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her chamber.”
“Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time.”
At that moment the city clock struck nine.
Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping voice, as preconcerted between them--
The song was destined never to be finished.
From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself. She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.