'Oh, what a weary boy!' said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I was shutting up my desk.
'What a weary girl!' said I. 'That's more to the purpose. You must go to bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you.'
'No, don't send me to bed!' pleaded Dora, coming to my side. 'Pray, don't do that!'
'Dora!' To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. 'Not well, my dear! not happy!'
'Yes! quite well, and very happy!' said Dora. 'But say you'll let me stop, and see you write.'
'Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!' I replied.
'Are they bright, though?' returned Dora, laughing. 'I'm so glad they're bright.' 'Little Vanity!' said I.
But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so.
'If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!' said Dora. 'Do you think them pretty?'
'Very pretty.'
'Then let me always stop and see you write.'
'I am afraid that won't improve their brightness, Dora.'
'Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you'll not forget me then, while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something very, very silly? - more than usual?' inquired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face.
