"No, I will not," answered Rose, bluntly, much displeased by the irreverent and audacious question.
Charlie looked rather abashed for a moment; but his natural light-heartedness made it easy for him to get the better of his own brief fits of waywardness, and put others in good humor with him and themselves.
"Now we are even: let's drop the subject and start afresh," he said with irresistible affability, as he coolly put the little heart in his pocket, and prepared to shut the drawer. But something caught his eye, and exclaiming, "What's this? what's this?" he snatched up a photograph which lay half under a pile of letters with foreign post-marks.
"Oh! I forgot that was there," said Rose, hastily.
"Who is the man?" demanded Charlie, eying the good-looking countenance before him with a frown.
"That is the Honorable Gilbert Murry, who went up the Nile with us, and shot crocodiles and other small deer, being a mighty hunter, as I told you in my letters," answered Rose gayly, though ill-pleased at the little discovery just then; for this had been one of the narrow escapes her uncle spoke of.
"And they haven't eaten him yet, I infer from that pile of letters?" said Charlie, jealously.
"I hope not. His sister did not mention it when she wrote last."
"Ah! then she is your correspondent? Sisters are dangerous things sometimes." And Charlie eyed the packet suspiciously.
