tion so readily. There are so
many things. Papa must be told; and James Scrope; and you must tell
Dorian and your uncle."

"All that would hardly take half an hour."

"Perhaps; but there are other reasons for delay, more than I can tell
you just now. And, besides, it is all so new, so strange." She smiles,
as though she would willingly have added the words, "so sweet;" and a
little happy far-away look creeps into and illumines her eyes. "Why
are you so impatient?"

"Impatient!" returns he, a touch of vehemence in his tone. "Of course
I am impatient. The sooner it is all got over the better." He checks
himself, draws his breath somewhat quickly, and goes on in a calmer
fashion: "What sort of a lover should I be, if I showed no anxiety to
claim you as soon as possible? _You_ should be the last to blame me
for undue haste in this matter. When shall it be, then?--In one month?
two? three?" He speaks again, almost excitedly.

"Oh, no, no," gently, but shrinking from him a little. "That would be
impossible. Why, think!--it is only this moment you have told me you
love me, and now you would have me name our wedding-day!"

"Not exactly that. But tell me some definite time, near at hand, to
which I can be looking forward. Everything rests with you now,
remember that." His last words convey an unconscious warning, but
Clarissa neither heeds or understands it.

"Papa will miss me so terribly," she says, dreamily; "it seems
selfish, almost as though I were wilfully deserting him. I should, at
least, like another Christmas at home with him. And see,"--turning to
him, with gentle earnestness,--"are we not quite happy as we now are,
loving and trusting in each other? Why, then, should we not continue
this present happiness for another year? You are silent, Horace! You
do not answer! Are you angry with me?" She lays her hand lightly on
his arm.

"No; not angry." His eyes are on the ground; and he takes no notice of
the tender pressure on his arm. "But a year is a long time to wait! So
many things may happen in twelve months; and deeds once done, forever
leave their mark."

"Do not speak like that, it is as though you would foretell evil,"
says Clarissa, a faint feeling of superstitious horror making her
nervous.

Branscombe, raising his head, regards her curiously.

"Why should there be evil to foretell?" he says, slowly. "And yet,
Clarissa, I would ask you always to remember this hour, and the fact
that it was you, not I