out of his own set! No wonder his poor uncle refused
to be present at the ceremony,--actually ran away from home to avoid
it. And--so--by the by, talking of running away, what was that affair
about that little girl at the mill? Wasn't Branscombe's name mixed up
with it unpleasantly? Horrid low, you know, that sort of thing, when
one is found out.

The county is quite pleased with its own gossip, and drinks
innumerable cups of choicest tea over it, out of the very daintiest
Derby and Sevres and "Wooster," and is actually merry at the expense
of the newly-wedded. Only a very few brave men, among whom is Mr.
Kennedy, who is staying with the Luttrels, give it as their opinion
that Branscombe is a downright lucky fellow and has got the handsomest
wife in the neighborhood.

Towards the close of July, contrary to expectation, Mr. and Mrs.
Branscombe return to Pullingham, and, in spite of censure, and open
protest, are literally inundated with cards from all sides.

The morning after her return, Georgie drives down to Gowran, to see
Clarissa, and tell her "all the news," as she declares in her first
breath.

"It was all too enchanting," she says, in her quick, vivacious way. "I
enjoyed it _so_. All the lovely old churches, and the lakes, and the
bones of the dear saints, and everything. But I missed you, do you
know,--yes, really, without flattery, I mean. Every time I saw
anything specially desirable, I felt I wanted you to see it too. And
so one day I told Dorian I was filled with a mad longing to talk to
you once again, and I think he rather jumped at the suggestion of
coming home forthwith; and--why, here we are."

"I can't say how glad I am that you _are_ here," says Clarissa. "It
was too dreadful without you both. I am so delighted you had such a
really good time and were so happy."

"Happy!--I am quite that," says Mrs. Branscombe, easily. "I can always
do just what I please, and there is nobody now to scold or annoy me in
any way."

"And you have Dorian to love," says Clarissa, a little gravely, she
hardly knows why. It is perhaps the old curious want in Georgie's tone
that has again impressed her.

"Love, love, love," cries that young woman, a little impatiently. "Why
are people always talking about love? Does it really make the world go
round, I wonder? Yes, of course I have Dorian to be fond of now." She
rises impulsively, and, walking to one of the windows, gazes out upon
the gardens beneath. "Come," she s