ere's the
curate. Why,"--brilliantly,--"she might marry the curate!"

"Mr. Hastings?" says Clarissa, with animation, brightening visibly.
"Why, really, so she might. Such a good-looking man, too, and clever.
It is only a day or two ago since somebody said to me, 'He has the
very sort of face they make bishops of nowadays.'"

"What a very disinterested girl you are!" says her father, with a
smile, faint but amused: "without a moment's hesitation you surrender
every hope of making this embryo bishop your own. Can devotion farther
go? Well, take my advice; and, as your heart is set upon this thing,
go down to the vicarage to-day; tell Mrs. Redmond you have secured a
governess for her; do not discuss the subject,--simply state the fact;
and I think you will find her deeply grateful, in that you have put an
end to her difficulties, without compelling her brain to bear upon the
matter."

"Machiavelli was a poor creature, when compared with you," says Miss
Peyton, saucily. "What plots and plans swell out your busy brain! I
shall go to the vicarage to-day, as you advise, and be as sweet as
honey to Mrs. Redmond, and win my cause against all obstacles. But
first"--turning with a soft movement to caress the snowy pigeon that
rests upon her shoulder--"little home friends must be fed."

The bird, as though comprehending her words, flies through the open
window to the balcony outside, to nestle among its more timid
companions; whilst Clarissa, a creature scarcely less fair than they,
follows him, to fling breadcrumbs for their morning meal.

A little later, having dressed herself, she starts upon her errand,
ready to take the vicarage by storm.

CHAPTER VIII.

"'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round."

The hot September sun beats fiercely on her as she walks along; the
day is full of languor and sweet peace. The summer is almost done, and
is dying, rich in beauty, and warm with the ripeness of strength
perfected. From out the thickets, little birds, that three months
agone scarce knew the power of breath, now warble soft melodies, that
thrill the air with joy. Clarissa, glad, and full of purpose, feels
her heart at one with these tiny, heaven-taught musicians, as she
follows the path beneath the leafy trees that leads to the vicarage.

As she deserts the tinted wood, and gains the road that runs by the
old mill, she finds herself face to face with Horace Branscombe,
coming towards her in a somewhat