mth when speaking of Branscombe. "He is a general favorite,
and I think he knows it. He is like a spoiled child; he says what he
likes to everyone, but nobody takes anything he says _seriously_."

This friendly hint is utterly thrown away. Miss Broughton understands
it not at all.

"Yet sometimes he looks quite grave," she says,--"nearly as grave as
Mr. Hastings when in his surplice, only not so solemn. That is all the
difference."

"I like Mr. Hastings in his surplice," says Clarissa; "I think him
very handsome: don't you?"

"Well--yes--. Only I wish his ears didn't stick out so much. Why do
they? He always, somehow, makes me think of Midas."

"But you like him," persists Clarissa, feeling, however, a little
crestfallen. It doesn't sound promising, this allusion to Mr.
Hastings's ears.

"Ever so much," says Georgie, enthusiastically; "and really, you know,
he can't help his ears. After all, how much worse a crooked eye would
be!"

"Of course. And his eyes are really beautiful."

"You are not in love with him, are you?" says Miss Georgie, with an
amused laugh; and again Clarissa's hopes sink to zero.

"No. But I am glad you are a friend of his. Does he--like you?"

"Yes, I think so: I am sure of it. Clarissa,"--with hesitation,--"if I
tell you something, will you promise me faithfully not to tell it
again?"

"I promise faithfully, darling, if you wish it."

"It is something Mr. Hastings said to me last night, and though I was
not told in words to keep it secret, still I think he would wish me to
be silent about it for--for a while. There can't be any harm in
confiding it to you, can there? You are such an old friend of both."

"Not the slightest harm," says Miss Peyton, with conviction.
Woman-like, she is burning with curiosity. Not for an instant does
she doubt that one of her greatest wishes is about to be fulfilled:
Mr. Hastings, who has a small though not insignificant income of his
own, independent of the Church, is about to marry her dearest Georgie.

"Her dearest Georgie," raising herself a little from her recumbent
position, leans her arm upon Clarissa's knee, and looks up into her
face: there is importance largely mingled with delight in her fair
features.

"Well, then," she says, slowly, as though loath to part all at once
with her treasured news, "last night--he told me--that he--was in
love!"

"Did he?"--with suppressed excitement. "And--and you--what did you
say?"

"I didn't say much