"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. It will be horribly dull, and she is a very trying person. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr.
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