r fan upon
Lily's arm. 'So sure as you sit there, Gertrude likes somebody, and I
think I shall soon know who he is. Can you conjecture, my dear?' And
Aunt Rebecca paused, looking, Lilias thought, rather pale, and with a
kind of smile too.

'No,' said Lilias; 'no, I really can't.'

'Well, maybe when I tell you I've reason to think he's one of our
officers here. Eh? Can you guess?' said Aunt Becky, holding her fan to
her mouth, and looking straight before her.

It was now Lily's turn to look pale for a moment, and then to blush so
much that her ears tingled, and her eyes dropped to the carpet. She had
time to recover, though, for Aunt Becky, as I've said, was looking
straight before her, a little pale, awaiting the result of Lily's
presumed ruminations. A moment satisfied her it could not be Devereux,
and she was soon quite herself again.

'An officer! no, Aunt Becky--there certainly is Captain Cluffe, who
always joins your party when you and Gertrude go down to hear the band,
and Lieutenant Puddock, too, who does the same--but you know--'

'Well, my dear, all in good time. Gertrude's very secret, and proud too;
but I shall know very soon. I've ascertained, my dear, that an officer
came under the window the other evening, and sang a verse of a French
chanson, from the meadow, in a cloak, if you please, with a guitar. I
could name his name, my dear--'

'Do pray tell me,' said Lily, whose curiosity was all alive.

'Why--a--not yet, my dear,' answered Aunt Becky, looking down; 'there
are--there's a reason--but the affair, I may tell you, began, in
earnest, on the very day on which she refused Mr. Mervyn. But I forgot
you did not know _that_ either--however, you'll never mention it.' And
she kissed her cheek, calling her 'my wise little Lily.'

'And my dear, it has been going on so regularly ever since, with, till
very lately, so little disguise, that I only wonder everybody doesn't
see it as plain as I do myself; and Lily, my dear,' continued Aunt
Rebecca, energetically, rising from the sofa, as some object caught her
eye through the glass-door in the garden, 'your beautiful roses are all
trailing in the mud. What on earth is Hogan about? and there, see, just
at the door, a boxful of nails!--I'd nail his ear to the wall if he were
mine,' and Aunt Rebecca glanced sharply through the glass, this way and
that, for the offending gardener, who, happily, did not appear. Then
off went Aunt Becky to something else; and in a