ppear as
neatly."

Mr. Coventry stepped smartly forward, and offered her his arm with
courteous deference; she took it, and went down with him, but shot
over his shoulder a side-glance of reproach at Little, for not being so
prompt as his rival.

"What spirits!" said a young lady.

"Yes," said another; "but she was as dull as the grave last time I met
her."

So ended that evening, with its little ups and downs.

Soon after this, Henry called on Miss Carden, and spent a heavenly hour
with her. He told her his plans for getting on in the world, and
she listened with a demure complacency, that seemed to imply she
acknowledged a personal interest in his success. She told him she had
always ADMIRED his independence in declining his uncle's offer, and now
she was beginning to APPROVE it: "It becomes a man," said she.

From the future they went to the past, and she reminded him of the
snow-storm and the scene in the church; and, in speaking of it, her
eye deepened in color, her voice was low and soft, and she was all
tenderness.

If love was not directly spoken, it was constantly implied, and, in
fact, that is how true love generally speaks. The eternal "Je vous aime"
of the French novelist is false to nature, let me tell you.

"And, when I come back from London, I hope your dear mother will give me
opportunities of knowing her better."

"She will be delighted; but, going to London!"

"Oh, we spend six weeks in London every year; and this is our time. I
was always glad to go, before--London is very gay now you know--but I am
not glad now."

"No more am I, I can assure you. I am very sorry."

"Six weeks will soon pass."

"Six weeks of pain is a good long time. You are the sunshine of my life.
And you are going to shine on others, and leave me dark and solitary."

"But how do you know I shall shine on others? Perhaps I shall be duller
than you will, and think all the more of Hillsborough, for being in
London."

The melting tone in which this was said, and the coy and tender
side-glance that accompanied it, were balm of Gilead to the lover.

He took comfort, and asked her, cheerfully, if he might write to her.

She hesitated a single moment, and then said "Yes."

She added, however, after a pause, "But you can't; for you don't know my
address."

"But you will tell me."

"Never! never! Fifty-eight Clarges Street."

"When do you go?"

"The day after to-morrow: at twelve o'clock."

"May I see you of