hat? To be parted
from you! We must be the same to each other always: my wedding-day
would be a miserable one indeed if it separated me from you."

Then he comforts her, fondly caressing the pretty brown head that lies
upon his heart, as it had lain in past years, when the slender girl of
to-day was a little lisping motherless child. He calls her by all the
endearing names he had used to her then, until her sobs cease, and
only a sigh, now and again, tells of the storm just past.

"When is it to be?" he asks her, after a little while. "Not too soon,
my pet, I hope?"

"Not for a whole year. He said something about November, but I could
not leave you in such a hurry. We must have one more Christmas all to
ourselves."

"You thought of that," he says, tenderly. "Oh, Clarissa, I hope this
thing is for your good. Think of it seriously, earnestly, while you
have time. Do not rush blindly into a compact that must be binding on
you all your life."

"I hope it _will be_ for all my life," returns she, gravely. "To be
parted from Horace would be the worst thing that could befall me.
Always remember that, papa. I am bound to him with all my heart and
soul."

"So be it!" says George Peyton, solemnly. A sigh escapes him.

For some time neither speaks. The twilight is giving place to deeper
gloom, the night is fast approaching, yet they do not stir. What the
girl's thoughts may be at this moment, who can say? As for her father,
he is motionless, except that his lips move, though no sound comes
from them. He is secretly praying, perhaps, for the welfare of his
only child, to her mother in heaven, who at this time must surely be
looking down upon her with tenderest solicitude. Clarissa puts her
lips softly to his cheek.

"Our engagement will be such a long one, that we think--"

"Yes?"

"We should like it keep it secret. You will say nothing about it to
any one?"

"Not until you give me leave. You have acted wisely, I think, in
putting off your marriage for a while." Almost unconsciously he is
telling himself how time changes all things, and how many plans and
affections can be altered in twelve months.

"But surely you will tell James Scrope," he goes on, after a while:
"that will not be making it public. He has known you and been fond of
you ever since you were a baby; and it seems uncivil and unfriendly to
keep him in the dark."

"Then tell him; but no one else now, papa. I quite arranged for James,
he is such an ol