"Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked.
"Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller, with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things."
The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps.
"I am afraid your mother doesn't see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible—"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl."
"Oh, it's a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied, serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won't come here, because she sees you."
"Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you."
"Oh no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller.
"I'm afraid your mother doesn't approve of my walking with you."
Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn't for me; it's for you—that is, it's for her. Well, I don't know who it's for! But mother doesn't like any of my gentle-
