"Good gracious!" says Brans...o...b.., going up to her. "What people?"

"You two!" says Clarissa, telling the truth out of sheer fright.

"You will be so kind as to explain yourself, Clarissa," says Dorian, with dignity. "Georgie and I have long ago made up our minds that Solon when compared with us was a very poor creature indeed."

"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., with conviction.

The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell Clarissa that some good and wonderful change has taken place.

"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying at home like other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling still puzzled.

"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., with saucy shyness.

"Oh, Jim, they have made it up!" says Miss Peyton, making this vulgar remark with so much joy and feeling in her voice as robs it of all its commonplaceness. She turns to Scrope as she says this, her eyes large with delight.

"We have," says Georgie, sweetly. "Haven't we Dorian?" And then again slipping her hand into his, "He is going to stay at home always for the future: aren't you, Dorian?"

"I am going to stay just wherever you are for the rest of my life,"

says Dorian; and then Clarissa and James know that everything has come all right.

"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says Scrope, taking Clarissa's hand and turning to Brans...o...b...

Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to her, kisses her heartily.

"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., with tears in her eyes.

"If you don't look out, Scrope, she will kiss you too," says Dorian.

"Look here, it is nearly six o'clock, and dinner will be at seven.

Come back, you two, and dine with us."

"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa is in town."

"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm comfortably into hers, "and we'll send you home at eleven."

"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, meekly.

"Yes, by the other road," says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., with a small grimace.

And then she presses Clarissa's arm against her side, and tells her, without the slightest provocation, that she is a "darling," and that everything is quite, quite, _quite_ TOO delicious!

That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian are once more alone, Brans...o...b.., turning to her, takes her in his arms.

"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You have no regrets now?"

"Not one," very earnestly. "But you, Dorian,"--she slips an arm round his neck, and brings his face down closer to her own, as though to read the expression of his eyes more clearly,--"are you satisfied?

Think how unkind I was to you; and, after all,"--navely,--"I am only pretty; there is really nothing in me. You have my whole heart, of course, you know that; I am yours, indeed, but then"--discontentedly--"what am I?"

"I know: you are my own darling," says Brans...o...b.., very softly.

THE END.