y think I shall give a ball."

"What?" cries a small, sweet, plaintive voice from the corner, and
Georgie, emerging from obscurity and the tremendous volume she has
been studying, comes to the front, in her usual vehement fashion, and
stands before Miss Peyton, expectation in every feature. "Oh,
Clarissa, do say it again."

"Papa says I must entertain the county in some way," says Clarissa,
meditatively, "and I really think a ball will be the best way. Don't
you?"

"Don't I, though?" says Miss Broughton, with much vivacity. "Clarissa,
you grow sweeter daily. Let me offer you some small return for your
happy thought."

She laughs, and, stooping, presses her warm ripe lips against her
friend's cheek. She blushes as she performs this graceful act, and a
small, bright, mischievous gleam grows within her eye. The whole
action is half mocking, half tender:

"A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns,
And sweet as English air can make her, she."

The lines come hurriedly to Branscombe's mind, and linger there.
Raising her head again, her eyes meet his, and she laughs, for the
second time, out of the pure gladness of her heart.

"I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, mildly. "_I_
suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. Might not I, too,
partake of the 'small return'?"

"It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,--here," says
Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one finger; "but for that,"
with a slow adorable glance, "I should be charmed."

"I think I shall get pencil and paper and write down the names," says
Clarissa, energetically, rising and going towards the door. "Dorian,
take care of Georgie until I return."

"I wish I knew how," says Branscombe, in a tone so low that only
Georgie can hear it. Then, as the door closes he says, "Did you mean
your last speech?"

"My last? What was it? I never remember anything." She very seldom
blushes, but now again a soft delicate color creeps into her face.

"If you _hadn't_ given it all away, would you have given me a little
of that small return?"

"No."

"Not even if _I_ were to give a ball for you?"

"N-o--no."

"Not if I were to do for you the one thing you most desired?"

"No--no--no!" She speaks hastily, and glances at him somewhat
confusedly from beneath her long lashes.

"Well, of course, it is too much to expect," says Branscombe; "yet I
would do a good deal for you, even without hope of payment."

He comes a little