aceful little coquette I never saw. I really pity that poor
duchess: see there, how miserably unhappy she is looking, and
how----er----pink."

"Don't be unkind: your hesitation was positively cruel. The word 'red'
is unmistakably the word for the poor duchess to-day."

"Well, yes, and yesterday, and the day before, and probably
to-morrow," says Sir James, mildly. "But I really wonder at the
duke,--at his time of life, too! If I were Branscombe I should feel it
my duty to interfere."

He is talking gayly, unceasingly, but always with his grave eyes fixed
upon Clarissa, as she leans back languidly on the uncomfortable
garden-chair, smiling indeed every now and then, but fitfully, and
without the gladness that generally lights up her charming face.

Horace had promised to be here to-day,--had faithfully promised to
come with her and her father to this garden-party; and where is he
now? A little chill of disappointment has fallen upon her, and made
dull her day. No smallest doubt of his truth finds harbor in her
gentle bosom, yet grief sits heavy on her, "as the mildews hang upon
the bells of flowers to blight their bloom!"

Sir James, half divining the cause of her discontent, seeks carefully,
tenderly, to draw her from her sad thoughts in every way that occurs
to him; and his efforts, though not altogether crowned with success,
are at least so far happy in that he induces her to forget her
grievance for the time being, and keeps her from dwelling too closely
upon the vexed question of her recreant lover.

To be with Sir James is, too, in itself a relief to her. With him she
need not converse unless it so pleases her; her silence will neither
surprise nor trouble him; but with all the others it would be so
different: they would claim her attention whether she willed it or
not, and to make ordinary spirited conversation just at this moment
would be impossible to her. The smile dies off her face. A sigh
replaces it.

"How well you are looking to-day!" says Scrope, lightly, thinking this
will please her. She is extremely pale, but a little hectic spot, born
of weariness and fruitless hoping against hope, betrays itself on
either cheek. His tone, if not the words, does please her, it is so
full of loving kindness.

"Am I?" she says. "I don't feel like looking well; and I am tired,
too. They say,--

'A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a;'

I doubt mine is a sad one, I feel so worn out. Th