But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. " "State the facts, then. " "Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt. .
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