ommy, strong as you look, Mabel
can outrun you down the hill."

"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute."

"You can't," cries Mabel in turn. "Nurse says I'm twice the child that
you are."

"Your legs are as short as a pin," roars Tommy; "you couldn't run."

"I can. I can. I can," says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood of
tears.

"Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to think he has
thrown himself away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he ought to have
taken rank as a distinguished diplomat. "Come, I'll start you both down
the hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day."

Instantly both children spring to the front of the path.

"You're standing before me, Tommy."

"No, I'm not."

"You're cheating--you are!"

"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?"

"I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know," says
Dysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a small
allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One--Good
gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of
relief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for more
than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to
their mother."

"They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to
spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce; "Barbara told me so last
night. Dear things! How sweet they looked!"

"They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart--a little absent
perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly
looks at her. He advances a step.

CHAPTER XIX.

"A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows
and what it comprehends."

"Well?" says he.

He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes
possession of one of her hands.

"As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me,
say something more."

"More?"

"Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say--boldly--that you will
marry me!"

Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for this
speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful
night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as
though it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form.

"Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, and
feeling somewhat disingenuous