any of these. Inwardly he was wondering how much or how little he
ought to say.

"I wish he would not come quite so often," he remarked.

"Oh, so do I!" said Lesley, with heartfelt warmth.

"Do you? Why, child, I thought you liked him!"

"I never liked him much," said Lesley, faltering.

"And yet you have allowed him to come here day after day and practise
with you? The ways of women are inscrutable," said Mr. Brooke, grimly,
"and I can't profess to understand them. If you did not wish him to
come, there was nothing to do but to close your doors against him."

"I shall be only too glad," said Lesley, eagerly.

"Oh--_now_? That is unnecessary: I shall do it myself," said her father,
with the same dryness of tone that always made Lesley feel as if she
were withering up to nothingness.

"I don't think he is very likely to come," she said, in a very low tone.
Then, with a quick impulse to clear herself, and an effort which brought
the blood in a burning tide to her fair face, she went on,
hurriedly--"Father, you don't think I forgot that he"--and then she
almost broke down, and "Ethel" was the only word that struck distinctly
upon his ear.

"You mean," said Mr. Brooke, "that you do not forget that he is going to
marry Ethel Kenyon? Perhaps not; but I think that _he_ does."

"I am not to blame for that," said Lesley, with a flash of the hot
temper that occasionally leaped to light when she was talking with her
father.

Brooke made no immediate answer. He took a match box from his pocket,
struck a match, and began to light the wax candles on the
mantelpiece--partly by way of finding something to do, partly because he
thought that he should like to see his daughter's face.

It was a very downcast face just then, but it was tinged with the hot
flush of mingled pride and shame with which she had spoken, and never
had it looked more lovely. The father considered it for a moment, less
with admiration than with curiosity: this daughter of his was an unknown
quantity: he never could predicate what she would do or say. Certainly
she surprised him once more when she lifted her head, and said,
quickly--

"I don't think I understand your English ways. I know what we should do
at the convent; but I never know whether I am right or wrong here. And
I have no one to ask."

"There is your Aunt Sophy."

"It is almost impossible to ask Aunt Sophy; she never sees where the
difficulty lies. I know she is kind--but she does not