" quotes he, his blue eyes full
of contrition. "And the door was wide open, and the picture before me
put all other thoughts out of my head. I wish I was a girl! I should
do nothing but play battledore and shuttlecock from morning till
night." Then, reproachfully, "I think you might both shake hands with
me, especially as I can say only 'how d'ye do' and 'good-by' in one
breath: I am bound to meet Arthur at three precisely."

"What a comfort!" says Clarissa, devoutly. "Then there is some faint
chance we may be allowed to end our afternoon in peace!"

"If there is one thing on earth for which I have a keen admiration, it
is candor," says Branscombe; "I thank you, Clarissa, for even this
small touch of it. Miss Broughton, be candid too, and say you, at
least, will regret me."

"I shall," says Georgie, with decided--and, it must be confessed,
unexpected--promptness.

"Ha!" says Dorian, victoriously. "Now I am content to go. A fig for
your incivility, Clarissa! At least I leave one true mourner behind."

"Two," says Clarissa, relentingly.

"Too late now; apology is useless! Well, I'm off. Can I do anything
for either of you?"

"Yes; bring me up that little dog you promised me,--one of Sancho's
puppies."

"You shall have the very prettiest to-morrow, in spite of your
ill-treatment. And you, Miss Broughton, what can I do for you?"

He is looking tenderly at the small childish face, framed in gold,
that is gazing at him smilingly from the distance.

"Me?" she says, waking, as if from a revery, with a faint blush. "Oh!
give me my liberty." She says it jestingly, but with a somewhat sad
shrug of her rounded shoulders, as she remembers the dismal
school-room, and the restraint that, however gentle, is hateful to her
gay, petulant nature. Her smile dies, and tears creep into her eyes.

In another moment she is laughing again; but months go by before
Dorian forgets the sad little petition and the longing glance that
accompanied it, and the sigh that was only half repressed.

"I like Mr. Branscombe so much," says Georgie, a little later on, when
Dorian has disappeared. They have forsaken their late game, and are
now in Clarissa's own room, standing in a deep oriel window that
overlooks the long sweep of avenue on one side, and the parterre
beneath where early spring flowers are gleaming wet with the rain that
fell so heavily an hour ago.

"Every one likes Dorian," says Clarissa, pleasantly, but without her
usual war