Airy Fairy Lilian

So struck is she by the criminality of it all that she might have stayed there until now, but that a well-known step coming up the stairs warns her that eavesdropping is not the most honorable position to be caught in. She moves away, and presently finds herself face to face with Guy. He is coming lazily along the corridor, but stops as he sees her.

"What is it, Florence? You look frightened," he says, half jestingly.

"No, not frightened," Florence answers, coldly, "though I confess I am a good deal amazed," – her tone says "disgusted," and Guy knows the tone. "Really, that girl seems absolutely ignorant of the common decencies of society!"

"Of whom are you speaking?" asks Guy, coloring.

"Of whom can I say such things but Lilian? She is the only one of my acquaintance deserving of such a remark, and it is not my fault that we are acquainted. I think it is clearly Aunt Anne's duty to speak to her, or yours. There are moments when one positively blushes for her."

"Why, what has she been doing?" asks Guy, overcome with astonishment at this outburst on the part of the usually calm Florence.

"Doing! Do you not hear her in her cousin's room? Is that the proper place for a young lady?"

At this instant a sound of laughter coming from Mr. Musgrave's apartment gives truth to her accusations, and with a slight but expressive shrug of her white shoulders, Florence sails majestically down the stairs, while Sir Guy instinctively moves on toward Taffy's quarters.

Miss Beauchamp's touch has left the door quite open, so that, standing on the threshold, he can see clearly all that is within.

By this time Taffy is quite arrayed, having finally resorted to his cousin's help.

"There!" says Lilian, triumphantly, "now you are ready. Oh! I say, Taffy, how nice you do look!"

"No; do I?" returns Mr. Musgrave, with admirable modesty, regarding himself bashfully though complacently in a full-length mirror. His tall young figure is well drawn up, his head erect; unconsciously he has assumed all the full-blown, starchy airs of a military swell. "Does the coat fit well, do you think?" he asks, turning to await her answer with doubtful anxiety.

"It is simply perfection," returns she reassuringly, "not a wrinkle in it. Certainly you owe your tailor something for turning you out so well."

"I do," says Taffy, feelingly.

"I had no idea it would make such a difference in you," goes on Lilian; "you look quite grown up."

"Grown up, – nonsense," somewhat indignantly; "I should think I was indeed. Just twenty, and six feet one. There are very few fellows in the service as good a height as I am. 'Grown up,' indeed!"

"I beg your pardon," Lilian says, meekly. "Remember I am only a little rustic, hardly aware of what a man really means. Talking of fitting, however, do you know," thoughtfully, and turning her head to one side, the better to mark the effect, "I think – I fancy – there is just a little pucker in your trousers, just at the knee."

"No; is there?" says Taffy, immediately sinking into the deepest melancholy as he again refers to the glass.

Here Sir Guy comes forward and creates a diversion. He is immensely amused, but still sore and angry at Florence's remarks, while wishing Lilian would not place herself in such positions as to lay her open to unkind criticism.

"Oh, here is Sir Guy," says that young lady, quite unembarrassed; "he will decide. Sir Guy, do you think his trousers fit very well? Look here, now, is there not the faintest pucker here?"

"I think they fit uncommonly well," says Guy, gravely. Taffy has turned a warm crimson and is silent; but his confusion arises not from Miss Chesney's presence in his room, but because Chetwoode has discovered him trying on his new clothes like a school-boy.

"Lilian wanted so much to see me in my uniform," he says, meanly, considering how anxious he himself has been to show himself to her in it.

"Yes, and doesn't he look well in it?" asks Lilian, proudly; "I had no idea he could look so handsome. Most men appear perfect fools in uniform, but it suits Taffy. Don't you think so?"

"I do; and I think something else, too; your auntie is coming up-stairs, and if she catches you in Taffy's room she will give you a small lecture on the proprieties."

This is the mildest rebuke he can think of. Not that he thinks her at all worthy of rebuke, but because he is afraid of Florence's tongue for her sake.

"Why?" asks Lilian, opening large eyes of utter amazement, after which the truth dawns upon her, and as it dawns amuses her intensely. "Do you mean to say," blushing slightly, but evidently struck with the comicality of the thought, – "what would auntie say, then, if she knew Taffy had been in mine? Yes; he was, – this afternoon, – just before lunch," nodding defiantly at Sir Guy, "actually in mine; and he stole my eau de Cologne, which I thought mean of him. When I found it was all gone, I was very near running across to your room to replenish my bottle. Was it not well I didn't? Had I done so I should of course have earned two lectures, one from auntie and one from – you!" provokingly. "Why, Guardy, how stupid you are! Taffy is just the same as my brother."

"But he is not your brother," says Guy, beginning to feel bewildered.

"Yes, he is, and better than most brothers: aren't you, Taffy?"

"Are you angry with Lil for being in my room?" asks Mr. Musgrave, surprised; "she thinks nothing of it: and why should she? Bless you, all last year, when we were at home – at the Park – she used to come in and settle my ties when we were going out anywhere to dinner, or that."

"Sir Guy never had a sister, so of course he doesn't understand," says Lilian, disdainfully, whereupon Guy gives up the point. "I wish you would come down and show yourself to auntie. Do now, Taffy," – coaxingly: "you can't think how well you look. Come, if only to please me."

"Oh, I couldn't," says Taffy. "I really couldn't, you know. She would think me such an awful fool, and Miss Beauchamp would laugh at me, and altogether it wouldn't be form. I only meant to show myself to you, but – "

"Guy, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode from the doorway, "why, what is going on here?" advancing and smiling gently.

"Oh, auntie, I am so glad you have come!" says Lilian, going forward to welcome her: "he would not go down-stairs to you, though I did my best to persuade him. Is he not charming in uniform?"

"He is, indeed. Quite charming! He reminds me very much of what Guy was when first he joined his regiment." Not for a moment does Lady Chetwoode – dear soul – think of improprieties, or wrong-doing, or the "decencies of society." And, watching her, Guy grows gradually ashamed of himself. "It was really selfish of you, my dear Taffy, to deny me a glimpse of you."

"Well, I didn't think you'd care, you know," says Mr. Musgrave, who is positively consumed with pride, and who is blushing like a demoiselle.

"I couldn't resist coming in when I saw you from the doorway. All my people were in the army: so I have quite an affection for it. But Lilian, darling, dinner is almost ready, and you have not yet changed your dress."

"I shan't be a minute," says Lilian; and Guy, lighting a candle, escorts her to her own room, while Lady Chetwoode goes down-stairs.

"Shall I get you the eau de Cologne now?" he asks, pausing on her threshold for a moment.

"If," says Miss Chesney, lowering her eyes with affected shyness, "you are quite sure there would be nothing reprehensible in my accepting it, I should like it very much, thank you. By the bye, that reminds me," glancing at him with a mocking smile, "Lady Chetwoode quite forgot to deliver that small lecture. You, Sir Guy, as my guardian, should have reminded her."

CHAPTER XIII

"Sweets to the sweet." —Hamlet.

"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?" asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night. "Madre, what of you?"

"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know we expect Archibald."

"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring him with me."

"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his.

"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he. "Florence, can I bring you anything?"

"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than the post."

"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop – is that what you call it? – and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love to me? I should die of shame."

"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, and wait until you receive an answer to it."

"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How can I serve you?"

"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. Au reste, I want bonbons, a new book or two, and – the portrait of the handsomest young man in London."

"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered. I shall have myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?"

Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains direct reply. "I said a young man," she remarks, severely.

"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?"

"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air of intense surprise.

"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian, calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see, Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm.

"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are such a child."

"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But who could chastise an infant?"

"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess with Mr. Musgrave.

"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward."

"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and she let him see" – dreamily but spitefully – "that she preferred another."

"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian, coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end.

"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can heed Lilian's embarrassment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a dozen boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall leave yours in peace."

"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing.

"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the question she closes and uncloses it indolently.

"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get my business done and be back by five."

"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?"

"Yes."

"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it, Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?"

She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes.

"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says, calmly yet hastily.

"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My dear Musgrave, what a false move! – a fatal delay. Don't you know bold play generally wins?"

"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amusement.

"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love. I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the world."

Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!"

Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!"

Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one. If you are really going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of burnt almonds I feel no end hungry."

Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over Sir Guy's confections."

Taffy, sotto voce, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel – Trant – about the neighborhood to-day."

Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is utterly unconscious of the private bombshell he has discharged.

"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light laugh, "he came to look after his protégée, the widow."

"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as her smile."

"I hope you are not épris with her. We warn everybody against our tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone. "We took her to oblige Trant, – who begged we would not be inquisitive about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses.

"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the rara avis whose tail she is elaborately embroidering, – the original of which was never yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea, – "I hope Colonel Trant, in this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs. Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty, – in a certain style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint praise that damns.

"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it a doubt enters his mind.

"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave, vaguely; "there is some story about his being madly in love with some mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it is, – but they say she is hidden away somewhere."

"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly; "it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is wicked?"

"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen him often in London."

"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both their hearts.

"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril, almost defiantly.

"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my mother."

At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second.

"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, apropos of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness, "Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move.

When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him.

Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious splendor.

The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside.

"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you would not go to The Cottage so often as you do."

"No? And why not, très cher?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is coming.

"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm."

"You shall never feel that. How you do torture yourself over shadows, Guy! I always think it must be the greatest bore on earth to be conscientious, – that is, over-scrupulous, like you. It is a mistake, dear boy, take my word for it, – will wear you out before your time."

"I am thinking of you, Cyril. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. Mrs. Arlington is lovely, graceful, everything of the most desirable in appearance, but – " A pause.

"Après?" murmurs Cyril, lazily.

"But," earnestly, "I should not like you to lose your heart to her, as you force me to say it. Musgrave says he saw Trant in the lane to-day. Of course he may have been mistaken; but was he? I have my own doubts, Cyril," rising in some agitation, – "doubts that may be unjust, but I cannot conquer them. If you allow yourself to love that woman, she will bring you misfortune. Why is she so secret about her former life? Why does she shun society? Cyril, be warned in time; she may be a – , she may be anything," checking himself slowly.

"She may," says Cyril, rising with a passionate irrepressible movement to his feet, under pretense of lighting the cigar that has died out between his fingers. Then, with a sudden change of tone and a soft laugh, "The skies may fall, of course, but we scarcely anticipate it. My good Guy, what a visionary you are! Do be rational, if you can. As for Mrs. Arlington, why should she create dissension between you and me?"

"Why, indeed?" returns Guy, gravely. "I have to ask your pardon for my interference. But you know I only speak when I feel compelled, and always for your good."

"You are about the best fellow going, I know that," replies Cyril, deliberately, knocking the ash off his cigar; "but at times you are wont to lose your head, – to wander, – like the best of us. I am safe enough, trust me. 'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' Come, don't let us spoil this glorious night by a dissertation on what we neither of us know anything about. What a starlight!" standing at the open casement, and regarding with quick admiration the glistening dome above him. "I wonder how any one looking on it can disbelieve in a heaven beyond!"

Here Musgrave's fair head makes a blot in the perfect calm of the night scene.

"Is that you, Taffy? Where have you been all this time? – mooning? – you have had ample opportunity. But you are too young for Melancholy to mark you as her own. It is only old folk like Guy," with a laughing though affectionate glance backward to where his brother stands, somewhat perplexed, beside the lamp, "should fall victims to the blues."

"A fig for melancholy!" says Taffy, vaulting lightly into the room, and by his presence putting an end to all private conversation between the brothers.

* * * * * * *

The next morning Lilian (to whom early rising is a pure delight), running down the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, finds Guy on the eve of starting, with Florence beside him, looking positively handsome in the most thrilling of morning gowns. She has forsaken her virtuous couch, and slighted the balmy slumber she so much loves, to give him his breakfast, and is still unremitting in her attentions, and untiring with regard to her smiles.

"Not gone!" says Lilian, wickedly: "how disappointed I am, to be sure! I fancied my bonbons an hour nearer to me than they really are. Bad Guardy, why don't you hurry?" She says this with the prettiest affectation of infantile grace, accompanied by a coquettish glance from under her sweeping lashes that creates in Florence a mad desire to box her ears.

"You forget it will not hasten the train five seconds, Guy's leaving this sooner than he does," she says, snubbingly. "To picture him sitting in a draughty station could not – I should think – give satisfaction to any one."

"It could" – willfully – "to me. It would show a proper anxiety to obey my behests. Guardy," with touching concern, "are you sure you are warm enough? Now do promise me one thing, – that you will beware of the crossings; they say any number of old men come to grief in that way yearly, and are run over through deafness, or short sight, or stupidity in general. Think how horrid it would be if they sent us home your mangled remains."

"Go in, you naughty child, and learn to speak to your elders with respect," says Guy, laughing, and putting her bodily inside the hall-door, from whence she trips out again to wave him a last adieu, and kiss her hand warmly to him as he disappears round the corner of the laurustinus bush.

And Sir Guy drives away full of his ward's fresh girlish loveliness, her slender lissome figure, her laughing face, the thousand tantalizing graces that go to make her what she is; forgetful of Miss Beauchamp's more matured charms, – her white gown, – her honeyed words, – everything.

All day long Lilian's image follows him. It is beside him in the crowded street, enters his club with him, haunts him in his business, laughs at him in his most serious moods; while she, at home, scarce thinks of him at all, or at the most vaguely, though when at five he does return she is the first to greet him.

"He has come home! he is here!" she cries, dancing into the hall. "Have you escaped the crossings? and rheumatism? and your old enemy, lumbago? Good old Guardy, let me help you off with your coat. So. Positively, he is all here, – not a bit of him gone, – and none the worse for wear!"

"Tired, Guy?" asks Florence, coming gracefully forward, – slowly, lest by unseemly haste she should disturb the perfect fold of her train, that sets off her figure to such advantage. She speaks warmly, appropriatingly, as one's wife might, after a long journey.

"Tired! not he," returns Lilian irreverently: "he is quite a gay old gentleman. Nor hungry either. No doubt he has lunched profusely in town, 'not wisely, but too well,' as somebody says. Where are my sweeties, Sir Ancient?"

"My dear Lilian," – rebukingly, – "if you reflect, you will see he must be both tired and hungry."

"So am I for my creams: I quite pine for them. Sir Guy, where are my sweeties?"

"Here, little cormorant," says Guy, as fondly as he dares, handing her a gigantic bonbonnière in which chocolates and French sweetmeats fight for mastery: "have I got you what you wanted?"

"Yes, indeed; best of Guardys, I only wish I might kiss my thanks."

"You may."

"Better not. Such a condescension on my part might turn your old head. Oh, Taffy," with an exclamation, "you bad greedy boy; you have taken half my almonds! Well, you shan't have any of the others, for punishment. Auntie and Florence and I will eat the rest."

"Thanks," drawls Florence, languidly, "but I am always so terrified about toothache."

"What a pity!" says Miss Chesney. "If I had toothache, I should have all my teeth drawn instantly, and false ones put in their place."

To this Miss Beauchamp, being undecided in her own mind as to whether it is or is not an impertinence, deigns no reply. Cyril, with a gravity that belies his innermost feelings, gazes hard at Lilian, only to acknowledge her innocent of desire to offend.

"You did not meet Archibald?" asks Lady Chetwoode of Guy.

"No: I suppose he will be down by next train. Chesney is always up to time."

"Lilian, my dear, where is my fourth knitting-needle?" asks auntie, mildly. "I lent it to you this morning for some purpose."

"It is up-stairs; you shall have it in one moment," returns Lilian, moving toward the door; and Sir Guy, muttering something about getting rid of the dust of travel, follows her out of the room.

At the foot of the stairs he says:

"Lilian."

"Yes?"

"I have brought you yet another bonbon. Will you accept it?"

As he speaks he holds out to her an open case, in which lies a pretty ring composed of pearls and diamonds.

"For me? Oh, Sir Guy!" says Lilian, flushing with pleasure, "what a lovely present to bring me!" Then her expression changes, and her face falls somewhat. She has lived long enough to know that young men do not, as a rule, go about giving costly rings to young women without a motive. Perhaps she ought to refuse it. Perhaps auntie would think it wrong of her to take it. And if there is really anything between him and Florence – Yet what a pretty ring it is, and how the diamonds glitter! And what woman can resign diamonds without a struggle?

"Will auntie be vexed if I take it?" she asks, honestly, after a pause, raising her clear eyes to his, thereby betraying the fear that is tormenting her.

"Why should she? Surely," with a smile, "an elderly guardian may make a present to his youthful ward without being brought to task for it."

"And Florence?" asks Lilian, speaking impulsively, but half jestingly.

"Does it signify what she thinks?" returns he, a little stiffly. "It is a mere bauble, and scarcely worth so much thought. You remember that day down by the stream, when you said you were so fond of rings?"

"No."

"Well, I do, as I remember most things you say, be they kind or cruel," softly. "To-day, though I cannot explain why, this ring reminded me of you, so I bought it, thinking you might fancy it."

"So I do: it is quite too lovely," says Lilian, feeling as though she had been ungracious, and, what is worse, prudish. "Thank you very much. I shall wear it this evening with my new dress, and it will help me to make an impression on my unknown cousin."

She holds out her hand to him; it is the right one, and Guy slips the ring upon the third finger of it, while she, forgetting it is the engaged finger, makes no objection.

Sir Guy, still holding the little cool slim hand, looks at her fixedly, and, looking, decides regretfully that she is quite ignorant of his meaning.

"How it sparkles!" she says, moving her hand gently to and fro so that the light falls upon it from different directions. "Thank you again, Guardy; you are always better to me than I deserve." She says this warmly, being desirous of removing all traces of her late hesitation, and quite oblivious of her former scruples. But the moment she leaves him she remembers them again, and, coming down-stairs with Lady Chetwoode's needle, and finding her alone, says, with a heightened color, "See what a charming present Sir Guy has brought me."

"Very pretty indeed," Lady Chetwoode says, examining the ring with interest. "Dear Guy has such taste, and he is always so thoughtful, ever thinking how to please some one. I am glad it has been you this time, pussy," kissing the girl's smiling lips as she bends over her. So that Miss Chesney, reassured by her auntie's kind words, goes up to dress for the reception of her cousin Archibald, with a clear and therefore happy conscience. Not for all the diamonds in Christendom would she have concealed even so small a secret as the acceptance of this ring from one whom she professes to love, and who she knows trusts in her.