m the loss of an empire
would be as dross in comparison with the gain of a friend.

They are young!

To Dorian Branscombe, Miss Broughton is "a thing of beauty, and a joy
forever; her loveliness increases" each moment, rendering her more
dear. Perhaps he himself hardly knows how dear she is to his heart,
though day after day he haunts the vicarage, persecuting the vicar
with parochial business of an outside sort. It ought, indeed, to be
"had in remembrance," the amount of charity this young man expended
upon the poor during all this early part of the year.

Then there is always Sunday, when he sits opposite to her in the old
church, watching her pretty mischievous little face meditatively
throughout the service, and listening to her perfect voice as it
rises, clear and full of pathos, in anthem and in hymn.

The spring has come at last, though tardy and slow in its approach.
Now--

"Buds are bursting on the brier,
And all the kindled greenery glows
And life hath richest overflows,
And morning fields are fringed with fire."

Winter is almost forgotten. The snow and frost and ice are as a dream
that was told. No one heeds them now, or thinks of them, or feels
aught about them, save a sudden chill that such things might have
been.

To-day is beautiful beyond compare. The sun is high in the heavens;
the birds are twittering and preening their soft feathers in the
yellow light that Phoebus flings broadcast upon the loving earth. The
flowers are waking slowly into life, and stud the mossy woods with
colorings distinct though faint:

"Nooks of greening gloom
Are rich with violets that bloom
In the cool dark of dewy leaves."

Primroses, too, are all alive, and sit staring at the heavens with
their soft eyes, as though in their hearts they feel they are earth's
stars. Each subtle green is widening, growing. All nature has arisen
from its long slumber, and "beauty walks in bravest dress."

Coming up the road, Dorian meets Georgie Broughton, walking with quick
steps, and in evident haste, towards the vicarage. She is lilting some
merry little song of her own fancy, and has her hat pushed well back
from her forehead, so that all her sunny hair can be seen. It is a
lovely hat,--inexpensive, perhaps, but lovely, nevertheless, in that
it is becoming to the last degree. It is a great big hat, like a
coal-scuttle,--as scuttles used to be,--and gives her all the
appearance of being the original of