rying of the flesh, to the little
ones.

"Why,--why," said he, once, in an unguarded moment, bitterly repented
of afterwards, "forbid them their rest on the Sabbath day?"

"What a pity the afternoon is so uncertain!" says Clarissa. "We might
have gone for a nice long drive."

She goes over to the window, and gazes disconsolately at the huge
shining drops that fling themselves heavily against the panes, and on
the leaves and flowers outside; while

"The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again."

"I cannot feel anything to be a pity to-day," says Georgie. "I can
feel only a sense of freedom. Clarissa, let us play a game of
battledore and shuttlecock. I used to beat you at Brussels; try if you
can beat me now."

Into the large hall they go, and, armed with battledores, commence
their fray. Hither and thither flies the little white bird, backwards
and forwards move the lithe figures of the girls. The game is at its
height: it is just the absorbing moment, when 199 has been delivered,
and received, and returned, when Georgie, stopping short suddenly,
cries "Oh!" and 200 flutters to the ground.

Clarissa, who is standing with her back to the hall door, turns
instinctively towards it, and sees Dorian Branscombe.

"I have disturbed you. I have come in at the wrong moment?" asks that
young man, fearfully.

"Ah! you have spoiled our game. And we were so well into it. Your
sudden entrance startled Georgie, and she missed her aim."

"I am sorry my mere presence should reduce Miss Broughton to a state
of abject fright," says Dorian, speaking to Clarissa, but looking at
Georgie.

Her arm is still half raised, her color deep and rich, her eyes
larger, darker than usual; the excitement of the game is still full
upon her. As Dorian speaks, her lips part, and a slow sweet smile
creeps round them, and she looks earnestly at him, as though to assure
him that she is making him a free present of it,--an assurance that
heightens her beauty, to his mind. Gazing at her with open and sincere
admiration, he tells himself that

"Nature might no more her child advance."

"Your presence would not frighten me," she says, shaking her head;
"but it was--I don't know what; I only know that I forgot myself for
the moment and missed my aim. Now, that was hard, because we were so
near our second hundred. Why did you not come a little sooner or a
little later?"

"Because 'a thoughtless animal is man,'