up to him first indistinctly, then with
more and more clearness. The tones Flint recognized at once as
belonging to Tilly Marsden and to Leonard Davitt, the young fisherman
whose scarlet shirt was often to be seen on the clamming grounds, and
whose rich baritone voice came ringing over the pond as he sat in his
boat hauling in his nets.

To-night, it was subdued, and at first scarcely rose above a murmur;
at length Flint caught the words:--

"I shall never ask you again."

"I hope to goodness you won't!" answered the shriller tones of the
innkeeper's daughter.

"That isn't a very nice way to speak, Tilly."

"Well, it's _my_ way, and my name isn't 'Tilly;' it is Matilda
Marsden, and very polite folks call me 'Miss.'"

"Some day you'll find out that it isn't the politest folks that's the
trustiest, or sticks to you the faithfullest. Don't you remember two
years ago, Tilly, when I was going to the Banks, how you kissed me
good-bye, and how you promised--"

"Never mind what I promised. I was only a child anyway."

"Well, you didn't think so then, and neither did I. Mebbe, the time
will come when you'll think you acted wiser then, than you're a-doin'
now."

"Oh, you needn't take the trouble to warn me, Mr. Leonard, about my
being foolish to give you up. You're not the only man in the world."

"Oh, yes," responded Leonard, nettled at last, "I knew very well that
was the trouble; and I know who the other man is; and all I can say
is--"

"Hush," cried Tilly, with a little turning of her head, and quickly
laying her hand on Leonard's arm. "Don't you say another word, Leonard
Davitt, if you ever want me to speak to you again."

At this, Flint's conscience got the better of him, and he rose and
closed the window noisily enough to startle the speakers below, as he
perceived with some amusement.

"What a little minx that girl is!" he said to himself as he turned to
light the lamps. "I have half a mind to devote myself to convincing
Leonard that she would make his life miserable if she married him, and
that he is worth ten of her; but I don't suppose he could be made to
believe either. Men are such fools when they are in love! By Jove!
that portrait is like Miss Anstice!"

This last ejaculation escaped him as he held the lamp above the mantel
where all his books were piled in heterogeneous confusion. One by one
he scanned their covers, with the half intention of the idler who
reads for pure diversion, and at lengt