ut just now I feel as if I could eat you, Clarissa."

"We haven't thought of breakfast, yet," says Clarissa. "I am so glad I
was lazy this morning! A happy Christmas, Dorian!"

"The same to you!" says Dorian, raising her hand and pressing it to
his lips. "By what luck do we find you in the hall?"

"The servants have just been here to receive their presents. Now, why
were you not a few minutes earlier, and you might have been stricken
dumb with joy at papa's speech?"

"I don't believe it was half a bad speech," says Mr. Peyton, stoutly.

"Bad! It was the most enchanting thing I ever listened to!--in fact,
faultless,--if one omits the fact that you looked as if you were in
torment all the time, and seemed utterly hopeless as to what you were
going to say next."

"James, is breakfast ready?" says Mr. Peyton, turning away to hide a
smile, and making a strenuous effort to suppress the fact that he has
heard one word of her last betrayal. "Come into the dining-room,
Dorian," he says, when the man has assured him breakfast will be ready
in two minutes: "it is ever so much more comfortable there."

Branscombe goes with him, and so presently, Clarissa and Horace find
themselves alone.

Horace, going up to her, as in duty bound, places his arm round her,
and presses his lips lightly, gently, to her cheek.

"You never wished _me_ a happy Christmas," he says, in the low soft
tone he always adopts when speaking to women. "You gave all your best
wishes to Dorian."

"You knew what was in my heart," replies she, sweetly, pleased that he
has noticed the omission.

"I wonder if I have brought you what you like," he says, laying in her
little palm a large gold locket, oval-shaped, and with forget-me-nots
in sapphires and diamonds, on one side. Touching a spring, it opens,
and there, staring up at her, is his own face, wearing its kindliest
expression, and seeming--to her--to breathe forth love and truth.

For a little minute she is silent; then she says softly, with lowered
eyes, and a warm, tender blush,--

"Did you have this picture taken for me, alone?"

It is evident the face in the locket is even dearer to her than the
locket itself.

"For you alone," says Horace, telling his lie calmly. "When it was
finished I had the negative destroyed. I thought only of you. Was not
that natural? There was one happy moment in which I assured myself
that it would please you to have my image always near you. Was I
wrong?--presumpt