e
an age since last I saw you!--not since breakfast; where have you been
all day?"

"You are a pet," says Miss Peyton, in a loving whisper, rubbing her
cheek tenderly against his, as a reward for his pretty speech. "I have
been at the vicarage, and have pleaded Georgie's cause so successfully
that I have won it; and have made them half in love with her already."

"A special pleader indeed. Diplomacy is your forte: you should keep to
it."

"I mean to. I shouldn't plead in vain with you, should I?" She has
grown somewhat earnest.

"Oh! with me!" says her father, with much self-contempt; "I have given
up all that sort of thing, long ago. I know how much too much you are
for me, and I am too wise to swim against the tide. Only I would
entreat you to be merciful as you are strong."

"What a lot of nonsense you do talk, you silly boy!" says Clarissa,
who is still leaning over his chair in such a position that he cannot
see her face. Perhaps, could he have seen it, he might have noticed
how pale it is beyond its wont. "Well, the Redmonds seemed quite
pleased, and I shall write to Georgie to-morrow. It will be nice for
her to be here, near me. It may keep her from being lonely and
unhappy."

"Well, it ought," says George Peyton. "What did the vicar say?"

"The vicar always says just what I say," replies she, a trifle
saucily, and with a quick smile.

"Poor man! his is the common lot," says her father; and then,
believing she has said all she wants to say, and being filled with a
desire to return to his book and his notes, he goes on: "So that was
the weighty matter you wanted to discuss, eh? Is that all your news?"

"Not quite," returns she, in a low tone.

"No? You are rich in conversation this evening. Who is it we are now
to criticise?"

"The person you love best,--I hope."

"Why, that will be you," says George Peyton.

"You are sure?" says Clarissa, a little tremulously; and then her
father turns in his chair and tries to read her face.

"No; stay just as you are; I can tell you better if you do not look at
me," she whispers, entreatingly, moving him with her hands back to his
former position.

"What is it, Clarissa?" he asks, hastily, though he is far from
suspecting the truth. Some faint thought of James Scrope (why he knows
not) comes to him at this moment, and not unpleasingly. "Tell me,
darling. Anything that concerns you must, of necessity, concern me
also."

"Yes, I am glad I know that," she sa