uous?"

Into his tone he has managed to infuse a certain amount of uncertainty
and anxious longing that cannot fail to flatter and do some damage to
a woman's heart. Clarissa raises her trustful eyes to his.

"Please me!" she repeats, softly, tears growing beneath her lids: "it
pleases me so much that it seems to me impossible to express my
pleasure. You have given me the thing that, of all others, I have most
wished for."

She blushes, vividly, as she makes this admission. Horace, lifting her
hand, kisses it warmly.

"I am fortunate," he says, in a low tone. "Will you love the original,
Clarissa, as you love this senseless picture? After long years, how
will it be?" There is a touch of concern and doubt--and something
more, that may be regret--in his tone.

"I shall always love you," says the girl, very earnestly, laying her
hand on his arm, and looking at him with eyes that should have roused
all tenderness and devotion in his breast:

"For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul
Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven."

He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the hall, summons them
gayly to breakfast.

* * * * *

In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that calls her
mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone.

The bells are ringing out still the blessed Christmas morn; yet she,
with downcast eyes, and chin resting in her hand, heeds nothing, being
wrapped in thought, and unmindful of aught but the one great idea that
fills her to overflowing. Her face is grave--nay, almost
sorrowful--and full of trouble; yet underlying all is gladness that
will not be suppressed.

At this moment--perhaps for the first time--she wakes to the
consciousness that the air is full of music, borne from the belfries
far and near. She shudders slightly, and draws her breath in a quick
unequal sigh.

"Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I could tell my
father!"

She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes fall upon the
table on which her arm is resting. There are before her a few opened
letters, some Christmas cards, a very beautiful Honiton lace
handkerchief, on which her initials, "R. A.," are delicately worked,
and--apart from all the rest--a ring, set with pearls and turquoises.

Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, slipping it on
and off her slender finger, without a smile, and with growing pallor.

A step upon the stai