low me to think for
myself in a matter of this sort. There: suppose we change the subject."

He resumed, or rather seemed to resume, the reading of his paper, while
the lady continued her breakfast, rather angry at what she called her
son's obstinacy, but too good a diplomatist to push him home, preferring
to wait till he had had time to reflect upon her words. She glanced at
him now and then, and saw that he seemed intent upon his newspaper, but
she did not know that he could not keep his attention to the page, for
all the while his thoughts were wandering back to the tent in Mr
William Forth Burge's grounds, then to the church, and again to the
various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thorne's quiet, grave face, as
she bent over one or other of her scholars.

He thought, too, of her conversation when he chatted with her after he
had taken her in to tea, and then of every turn of expression in her
countenance, comparing it with that of Beatrice Lambent, but only to
cease with an ejaculation full of angry contempt, "I shall not marry a
woman for her pretty face."

"Did you speak, my dear!" said Mrs Canninge.

"I uttered a thought half aloud," he replied quietly.

"Is it a secret, dear?" she said playfully.

"No, mother; I have no secrets from you."

"That is spoken like my own dear son," said Mrs Canninge, rising, and
going behind his chair to place her hands upon his shoulders, and then
raise them to his face, drawing him back, so that she could kiss his
forehead. "Why, there are lines in your brow, George--lines of care.
What are you thinking about!"

"Beatrice Lambent."

"About dear Beatrice, George? Why, that ought to bring smiles, and not
such deep thought-marks as these."

"Indeed, mother! Well, for my part, I should expect much of Beatrice
Lambent would eat lines very deeply into a fellow's brow."

"For shame, my dear! But come," cried Mrs Canninge cheerfully, "tell
me what were your thoughts, or what it was you said that was no secret."

"I said to myself, mother, that I should never marry a woman for the
sake of a pretty face."

Mrs Canninge's mind was full of Hazel Thorne, and, associating her
son's remark with the countenance that had rather troubled her thoughts
since the day of the school feast, her heart gave a throb of
satisfaction.

"I know that, George," she exclaimed, smiling. "I know my son to be too
full of sound common-sense, and too ready to bear honourably his
father's nam