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When she has passed he stands looking after her, all the
music gone out of him. At the other end of the bridge she turns
with the feeling that he is looking, and, when she sees that he
is, goes on with a little toss of her pretty head. As she stands
one brief moment there with the roguish look, she is to stand
in his heart forever--a sweet girlish figure, in jacket of gray,
black-embroidered, with schoolbooks and pretty bronzed boots--
"With tassels!" says my wife, maliciously--she has been looking
over my shoulder. Well, with tassels! What then? Did I not worship
a pair of boots with tassels which I passed in a shop window in
Copenhagen every day for a whole year, because they were the only
other pair I ever saw? I don't know--there may have been more;
perhaps others wore them. I know she did. Curls she had, too--curls
of yellow gold. Why do girls not have curls these days? It is such
a rare thing to see them, that when you do you feel like walking
behind them miles and miles just to feast your eyes. Too much
bother, says my daughter.


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