tly, and,
turning, devotes herself for the next ten minutes to the small artist
lying at her feet--an attention received by the imperturbable Boodie
with the most exasperating unconcern.

The afternoon wanes; day is sinking to its rest. Behind the tall dark
firs "the great gold sun-god, blazing through the sky" may still be
seen, but now he grows aweary, and would fain give place to his sister,
the pale moon.

"The sweet keen smell--the sighing sound" of coming night is on the air.
The restless ocean is rolling inland with a monotonous roar; there is
scarcely sufficient breeze to ruffle the leaves of the huge chestnut
that stands near one corner of the old house, not far from the balcony
outside the drawing-room windows, where Mrs. Beaufort and the two girls
are sitting.

The children are playing somewhere in the distance. Their sweet and
merry voices come up to the balcony now and then, and mingle with the
breath of descending night.

And now from beneath the fir trees two figures emerge, and come towards
the stone steps where their hostess is sitting.

"Are you clean?" asks Dulce, with a charming smile, leaning over the
railings to see them better as they draw closer.

"To confess a horrid truth, I don't believe we are," says Stephen Gower,
glancing up at her, and regarding his rough shooting coat somewhat
ruefully. "Will that admission exclude us from Paradise?"

"Dulce," says Dicky Browne, who is the second of the two figures, "I'm
worn out. I've been walking all day, a thing I very seldom do; I have
been firing off an unlimited number of cartridges, without, I am bound
to confess--I am, as experience has doubtless taught you, a remarkably
truthful person--without any very brilliant consequences, and I feel
that very little more fatigue will be my death. Have compassion on us.
We faint, we die; show mercy and give us some tea and some cake. You're
awfully hungry, Gower, aren't you?"

"Well, not very," says Mr. Gower, too occupied in his contemplation of
Dulce's charming face to be quite alive to what is so plainly expected
of him.

"Oh, nonsense! He is tremendously hungry," says Dicky Browne. "Let us
up, Dulce, and we will sit out there on the balcony, and won't soil
anything. Except gore, there isn't much staining about us."

"But that is worse than anything," says Dulce with a shudder. "However,
come up, and if you keep _very_ far away, I daresay I shan't mind much."

"Hard conditions," says Gower, i