“What does he say?” asked Zenobia.

“Nothing that has an atom of sense in it,” answered Hollingsworth. “He is a little beside himself, I believe, and talks about your being a witch, and of some magical property in the flower that you wear in your hair.”

“It is an idea worthy of a feverish poet,” said she, laughing rather compassionately, and taking out the flower.

“I scorn to owe anything to magic. Here, Mr. Hollingsworth, you may keep the spell while it has any virtue in it; but I cannot promise you not to appear with a new one to-morrow. It is the one relic of my more brilliant, my happier days!”

The most curious part of the matter was that, long after my slight delirium had passed away, —