een a tragedy in
Pullingham, with Jim for its hero."

"You take a different view of the case from mine. I believe there
would have been no broken heart, and no early grave, and you would
have been happy ever after."

"That is a more comfortable theory, certainly for _me_. But think what
a miserable life _he_ would have had with me forever by his side."

"A very perfect life, I think," says Mr. Peyton, looking with
pardonable pride upon the half-earnest, half-laughing, and wholly
lovely face so near him. "I don't know what more a fellow could
expect."

"You see I was right. I said you were a goose," says Miss Peyton,
irreverently. But she pats his hand, in the very sweetest manner
possible, as she says it. Then she goes on:

"Horace said he would come up to-morrow to speak to you."

"Very well, dear. That is the usual thing, I suppose. I hope he won't
be long-winded, or lachrymose, or anything that way. When a thing is
done it is done, and discussion is so unnecessary."

"Promise me to be very, very kind to him."

"I shan't eat him, if you mean that," says Mr. Peyton, half irritably.
"What do you think I am going to say to him? 'Is thy father an ogre,
that he should do this thing?' But have you quite made up your mind to
this step? Remember there will be no undoing it."

"I know that; but I feel no fear." She has grown pale again. "I love
him. How should I know regret when with him? I believe in him, and
trust him; and I know he is worthy of all my trust."

Mr. Peyton sighs. Some words come to his memory, and he repeats
them,--slowly, beneath his breath,--

"There are no tricks in plain and simple faith!"

Truly, her faith is pure and simple, and free from thought of guile.

"I wonder what James Scrope will say to it all?" he says, presently.

"He never says very much on any subject, does he? If you are going
over to the Hall, will you tell him about it?"

"No; tell him yourself," says her father, in a curious tone.

"There is the dressing bell," says Clarissa getting up lazily. "I
don't feel a bit like eating my dinner, do you know?"

"Nonsense! The love-sick _role_ won't suit you. And people who don't
eat dinner get pale, and lose all their pretty looks. Run away, now,
and don't be long. I feel it would be injudicious to put cook into a
tantrum again to-night, after last night's explosion. So go and make
yourself lovely."

"I'll do my best," says Clarissa, modestly.

CHAPTER XI

"I c