It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.

“Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,” she says, when I smile; “but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!”

“That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.”