e her yet."

"Dorian will not like that."

"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very good to me, and I
couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. I shall stay with her until
she gets somebody else. I don't think, when I explain it to him, that
Dorian will mind my doing this."

"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how
you detest teaching, and that."

While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the little
yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, looks so
openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs mischievously.

"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that
you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!"

"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; "you, at least,
should not be the one to say it, as you are in a position to declare I
was alive and hearty at half-past twelve this morning."

"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,--but only on one
subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new
books from town to-day,--some painfully _old_ books, I mean,--and has
not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day
buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day.
Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him
out?"

They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.

* * * * *

"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is
holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile
that betrays the deep love of his heart.

"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I
am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest
idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since--since I
was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me,--that is, no one
quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than
of anybody else in the world, won't you?"

She seems really anxious as she asks this.

"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question?
And you, Georgie, do you love me?"

"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"--with decided hesitation.
"I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with
you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"

This definition of what love _may_ be, hardly comes up to the mark in
Mr. Branscombe's estimation.

She has risen, and is no