"Yes; bring me up that little dog you promised me,--one of Sancho's puppies."

"You shall have the very prettiest to-morrow, in spite of your ill-treatment. And you, Miss Broughton, what can I do for you?"

He is looking tenderly at the small childish face, framed in gold, that is gazing at him smilingly from the distance.

"Me?" she says, waking, as if from a revery, with a faint blush. "Oh!

give me my liberty." She says it jestingly, but with a somewhat sad shrug of her rounded shoulders, as she remembers the dismal school-room, and the restraint that, however gentle, is hateful to her gay, petulant nature. Her smile dies, and tears creep into her eyes.

In another moment she is laughing again; but months go by before Dorian forgets the sad little pet.i.tion and the longing glance that accompanied it, and the sigh that was only half repressed.

"I like Mr. Brans...o...b.. so much," says Georgie, a little later on, when Dorian has disappeared. They have forsaken their late game, and are now in Clarissa's own room, standing in a deep oriel window that overlooks the long sweep of avenue on one side, and the parterre beneath where early spring flowers are gleaming wet with the rain that fell so heavily an hour ago.

"Every one likes Dorian," says Clarissa, pleasantly, but without her usual warmth when speaking of Brans...o...b... "He is a general favorite, and I think he knows it. He is like a spoiled child; he says what he likes to everyone, but n.o.body takes anything he says _seriously_."

This friendly hint is utterly thrown away. Miss Broughton understands it not at all.

"Yet sometimes he looks quite grave," she says,--"nearly as grave as Mr. Hastings when in his surplice, only not so solemn. That is all the difference."

"I like Mr. Hastings in his surplice," says Clarissa; "I think him very handsome: don't you?"

"Well--yes--. Only I wish his ears didn't stick out so much. Why do they? He always, somehow, makes me think of Midas."

"But you like him," persists Clarissa, feeling, however, a little crestfallen. It doesn't sound promising, this allusion to Mr.

Hastings's ears.

"Ever so much," says Georgie, enthusiastically; "and really, you know, he can't help his ears. After all, how much worse a crooked eye would be!"

"Of course. And his eyes are really beautiful."

"You are not in love with him, are you?" says Miss Georgie, with an amused laugh; and again Clarissa's hopes sink to zero.

"No. But I am glad you are a friend of his. Does he--like you?"

"Yes, I think so: I am sure of it. Clarissa,"--with hesitation,--"if I tell you something, will you promise me faithfully not to tell it again?"

"I promise faithfully, darling, if you wish it."

"It is something Mr. Hastings said to me last night, and though I was not told in words to keep it secret, still I think he would wish me to be silent about it for--for a while. There can't be any harm in confiding it to you, can there? You are such an old friend of both."

"Not the slightest harm," says Miss Peyton, with conviction.

Woman-like, she is burning with curiosity. Not for an instant does she doubt that one of her greatest wishes is about to be fulfilled: Mr. Hastings, who has a small though not insignificant income of his own, independent of the Church, is about to marry her dearest Georgie.

"Her dearest Georgie," raising herself a little from her rec.u.mbent position, leans her arm upon Clarissa's knee, and looks up into her face: there is importance largely mingled with delight in her fair features.

"Well, then," she says, slowly, as though loath to part all at once with her treasured news, "last night--he told me--that he--was in love!"

"Did he?"--with suppressed excitement. "And--and you--what did you say?"

"I didn't say much," says Miss Broughton, regretfully. "I might have said a great deal more, something kinder, more encouraging, you know; but I was so surprised and so----"

"Pleased?"--tenderly.

"Pleased! I should think so," with so much _empress.e.m.e.nt_ that even Clarissa is taken aback. "I was never so delighted in my life, only, as I said before, a little confused, and couldn't think of anything pretty to say."

"I think it was far nicer your saying nothing," says Clarissa, very gently. She is a little disappointed in Georgie; a woman may be glad to marry a man, but she shouldn't say so, at least not exactly in such a cold-blooded fashion. "I can quite understand"--with sufficient hesitation to convince herself, at least, that she does not understand--"how you felt nervous in spite of your happiness."

"Oh, you always know everything," says Georgie, so lovingly that Clarissa hates herself for thinking even one unpleasant thought of her. "Well, he went on to say he never loved before. Now, honestly, Clarissa,"--in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone,--"do you think that could be true?"

"Why shouldn't it be true?" says Clarissa, wishing with all her heart the other would be a little more sentimental over her own first love-affair, as she believes it to be.

"Well, yes, of course; he is rather young, and beauty goes a long way with some men."

Again Clarissa stares. She hadn't thought Georgie vain of her own charms. How difficult it is to know any one, even one's chiefest friend!

"Then he went on to say he could never feel real happiness again until he knew he was loved in return."

"Well?"--breathlessly,--"and then----?"

"I said,"--with the gayest little laugh imaginable,--"I thought he _was_ loved in return."

"You _thought_, Georgie? What a strange answer! I do think you are a little bit coquette! I am so glad, though. Do you know, I guessed all along how it would be?"

"So did I. I knew very well how it would end. I felt he would fall a victim sooner or later. It is rather soon, isn't it? But of course it is only natural I should know about it?"

"Yes, only natural." Clarissa can think of nothing else to say. Not like this had _she_ felt when----. To talk of him as a victim!

"I hope everything will be settled soon," goes on Miss Broughton, gayly, "'Happy is the wooing that isn't long adoing.' And I should like the marriage to be soon; wouldn't you? I think next time I see him I shall ask him about it."

"Oh, Georgie, don't! Indeed I would not, if I were you," exclaims Clarissa, in an agony. Good gracious! Is she lost to all sense of shame? "He won't like it. It is surely the man's part to speak first about that."

"Oh, very well,"--amicably. "But there couldn't be any harm in my speaking about it."

"Just as much as in any other woman's."

"Not so much as if it was Cissy?"

"Twice as much. What has she got to do with it?"

"Well, a great deal, I take it,"--laughing again.

"As a friend she may feel some interest in him, I suppose. But _she_ is not going to marry him."

"Well, I think she is. You don't think she will refuse him, do you?"--anxiously.

"Cissy Redmond!"

"Cissy Redmond."

"Do you mean to tell me," says Clarissa, growing very red, "that it is Cissy you have been talking about all this time, and not--yourself?"