Now--being late in the season--the blossom is more scarce, though still the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, with Archibald gladly following.

All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.

"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the gra.s.s beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above her. "Let us sit here and talk."

Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence reigns supreme.

"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes upon her companion.

"Well?" says Archibald in return.

"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I dislike silence."

"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid."

"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take care of my birds?"

"Yes."

"And you fed them?"

"Regularly," says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the very haziest idea of what she means.

"I am glad of that," regarding him searchingly. "It would make me unhappy to think they had been neglected."

"Don't be unhappy, then," returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: "they are all right: I took care of that." His manner is truthful in the extreme, his eyes meet hers rea.s.suringly. It is many years since Mr.

Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impa.s.sive countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned the wisdom of the old maxim,--

"When you tell a lie, tell a good one, When you tell a good one, stick to it,"

and sticks to his accordingly.

"I am so pleased!" says Lilian, after a slight pause, during which she tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and that Archibald is quite an example to his s.e.x in the matter of good nature. "One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my birds would miss me."

"I am sorry you ever left it."

"So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and (as she hinted) wicked bachelor."

"I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her," says Archibald, mildly, "but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly objectionable and interfering old maid."

"No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some ways."

"She is an old maid?" raising himself on his elbow with some show of interest.

"Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids," says Lilian, stoutly.

"Oh, she _likes_ old maids," says Mr. Chesney, _sotto voce_, sinking back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there is nothing more to be said on that head. "And so she wouldn't let you stay?"

"No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!"

"It pained you very much to leave the Park?"

"It was death to me. Remember, it had been my home all my life; every stick and stone about the place was dear to me."

"It was downright brutal, my turning you out," says Archibald, warmly: "I could hate myself when I think of it. But I knew nothing of it, and--I had not seen you then."

"If you had, would you have let me stay on?"

"I think so," returns he, softly, gazing with dangerous tenderness at the delicate rose-tinted face above him. Then, "Even so, I wish you had asked me; I so seldom go near the place, you would have been thoroughly welcome to stay on in it, had you been the ugliest person breathing."

"So I said at the time, but Aunt Priscilla would not hear of it. I am sure I heard enough about the proprieties at that time to last me all my life. When all arguments failed," says Miss Chesney, breaking into a gay laugh, as recollection crowds upon her, "I proposed one last expedient that nearly drove auntie wild with horror. What do you think it was?"

"Tell me."

"I said I would ask your hand in marriage, and so put an end to all slanderous tongues; that is, if you consented to have me. See what a narrow escape you had," says Lilian, her merriment increasing: "it would have been so awkward to refuse!"

Archibald gazes at her earnestly. He has been through the hands of a good many women in his time, but now confesses himself fairly puzzled.

Is her laughter genuine? is it coquetry? or simply amus.e.m.e.nt?

"Had you ever a proposal, Lilian?" asks he, quietly, his eyes still riveted upon her face.

"No," surprised: "what an odd question! I suppose it is humiliating to think that up to this no man has thought me worth loving. I often imagine it all," says Lilian, confidentially, taking her knees into her embrace, and letting her eyes wander dreamily over to the hills far away behind the swaying trees. "And I dare say some day my curiosity will be gratified. But I do hope he won't write: I should like to _see_ him do it. I wouldn't," says Miss Chesney, solemnly, "give a pin for a man who wouldn't go down on his knees to his lady-love."

This last remark under the circ.u.mstances is eminently unwise. A moment later Lilian is made aware of it by the fact of Archibald's rising and going down deliberately on his knees before her.

"It can scarcely be news to you to tell you I love you," says he, eagerly. "Lilian, will you marry me?"

"What are you saying?" says Miss Chesney, half frightened, half amused: "you must be going mad! Do get up, Archie: you cannot think how ridiculous you look."

"Tell me you will marry me," entreats that young man, unmoved even by the fact of his appearing grotesque in the eyes of his beloved.

"No; I will not," shaking her head. "Archie, do move: there is the most dreadful spider creeping up your leg."

"I don't care; let him creep," says Archibald, valiantly; "I shan't stir until you give me a kind answer."

"I don't know what to say; and besides I can do nothing but laugh while you maintain your present position. Get up instantly, you foolish boy: you are ruining the knees of your best trousers."

Whether this thought carries weight with Mr. Chesney I know not, but certainly he rises to his feet without further demur.

"You spoke about the Park a few minutes ago," he says, slowly; "you know now you can have it back again if you will."

"But not in that way. Did you think I was hinting?" growing rather red.

"No; please don't say another word. I wonder you can be so silly."

"Silly!" somewhat aggrieved; "I don't know what you mean by that. Surely a fellow may ask a woman to marry him without being termed 'silly.' I ask you again now. Lilian, will you marry me?"

"No, no, no, certainly not. I have no intention of marrying any one for years to come,--if ever. I think," with a charming pout, "it is very unkind of you to say such things to me,--and just when we were such good friends too; spoiling everything. I shall never be comfortable in your society again; I'm sure I never should have suspected you of such a thing. If I had----" A pause.