, who wished the postponement of our marriage.
If it must be as you say, it will be better to keep our engagement as
quiet as possible; perfectly secret will indeed be best."

"Yes; if you wish it. That will please me, too. Only papa need know of
it, and----James Scrope."

"And why Sir James?" with a scrutinizing gaze.

"Why?"--with some surprise. "Well, I suppose because papa and I never
do anything important without telling him of it. He is quite our
oldest friend. We should hardly get on now without Jim."

"Not so old, either. I hope, by and by, you will be able to manage
without Sir James as a father-confessor."

"By and by I shall have you," says Clarissa, sweetly, with a smile and
a soft blush.

"True! I wonder if you will find that sufficient? I doubt I'm half
such a good fellow, Clarissa, as you believe me."

In which he comes nearer the truth than he ever came before.

"You are good enough for me," says Clarissa, with fond conviction.
"Will you come with me as far as the vicarage? I must go there to-day,
and the walk is such a pretty one, and,"--with a little happy
laugh,--"now you are quite my own property, I think I should like to
make use of you. Look! there is Ruth Annersley standing at her gate.
Good-morning, Ruth! What a charming day, is it not? after all
yesterday's rain!"

Ruth--who, the moment before, had made a faint movement as though she
would willingly have stepped behind the huge rose-bush nearest to her
and so have escaped observation--comes slowly forward. She is pale;
but the intense heat of the day makes itself felt by all, and has
deprived even Miss Peyton's cheeks of some of their usual warmth. She
accepts Clarissa's proffered hand, and smiles a faint welcome. But
when Horace would, too, have shaken hands with her, she declines to
see his meaning, and, bowing slightly, turns aside to listen to his
companion's words.

"Were you raking your walks?" asks Clarissa, idly, leaning on the
gate, and gazing down the trim-gravelled path that leads to the
ivy-clad cottage beyond. "Nobody's walks are ever as clean as yours, I
think. And your roses are something too delicious, far better than our
out-door flowers at Gowran. And so late in the season, too!"

"May I give you one?" says Ruth, dimpling prettily at her praise.

"Thank you. How sweet they are! No, no, Horace, that is altogether too
large for your coat. Ruth, will you give Mr. Branscombe a tiny bud?
That one over there, for insta