e and silent, when Mollie said that the two were "making
love."

But at last it occurred to him that even to Mollie his preoccupation
might appear singular, and he roused himself accordingly.

"Making love!" he said again. "Blissful occupation! I wonder how they do
it. Do you know, Mollie?"

Mollie looked at him with a freedom from scruples or embarrassment at
the conversation taking such a turn, which told its own story.

"Yes," she said. "They talk, you know, and say things to each other just
as other people do, and he kisses her sometimes. I know that," with a
decided air, "because I have seen him do it."

"Cool enough, that, upon my word," was her questioner's mental comment,
"and not unpleasant for Donne; but hardly significant of a fastidious
taste, if it is a public exhibition." "Ah, indeed!" he said, aloud.

"They have been engaged so long, you know," volunteered Mollie.

"Singularly enough, I did not know, Mollie," he replied. "Are you sure
yourself?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Mollie, opening her eyes. "I thought everybody knew
that. They have been engaged ever since they were ever so much younger.
Dolly was only fifteen, and Griffith was only eighteen, when they first
fell in love."

"And they have been engaged ever since?" said Gowan, his curiosity
getting decidedly the better of him.

"Yes, and would have been married long ago, if Griffith could have got
into something; or if Old Flynn would have raised his salary. He has
only a hundred a year," with unabashed frankness, "and, of course, they
couldn't be married on that, so they are obliged to wait. A hundred and
fifty would do, Dolly says,--but then, they have n't got a hundred and
fifty."

Ralph Gowan was meanly conscious of not being overpowered with regret
on hearing this latter statement of facts. And yet he was by no means
devoid of generous impulse. He was quite honest, however deeply he might
be mistaken, in deciding that it would be an unfortunate thing for Dolly
if she married Griffith Donne. He thought he was right, and certainly if
there had been no more good in his rival than he himself had seen on
the surface, he would not have been far wrong; but as it was he was
unconsciously very far wrong indeed. He ran into the almost excusable
extreme of condemning Griffith upon circumstantial evidence. Unfair
advantage had been taken of Dolly, he told himself. She had engaged
herself before she knew her own heart, and was true to her lover becau