Winning Rosemary Burke

Winning Rosemary Burke
by Wolcott Le Clear Beard
IN his swarthy, almost Moorish style, Don Miguel Farrello was undeniably handsome. His health was perfect. Also, he was prosperous—exceedingly prosperous. To all appearances, he was contented, as well. Even a bleak and bitter gale that howled and blustered through the streets failed to abate in the slightest degree his air of satisfaction with the world at large and his own position therein.
Don Miguel chuckled infectiously as he braced his big body against the rushing wind. He chuckled again as a mighty gust, tearing around the nearest corner, bore with it a little woman, as it might have borne a dry leaf, and flung her fairly into his arms.
"Sure, 'tis none so ill a wind afther all," he laughed, "if it blows things such as this to a man."
Very courteously he helped the little, wind-driven woman to struggle free from their involuntary embrace. She stood clinging to a lamp-post then, and for the first time he caught sight of her wistful face, framed by a flutter of her shabby draperies. As Don Miguel looked at that face the laughter on his own faded to an expression of mingled wonderment and joy. He saw wonderment come into hers,

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