oment she remained perfectly silent, shaking with
merriment.

Hoffland conceived the design to take advantage of this astonishment,
and modestly "held up his mouth," as children say. The consequence was
that Miss Lucy extricated her hand from his grasp, and drew back with
some hauteur; whereupon Hoffland assumed an expression of such
mortification and childlike dissatisfaction, that Mowbray, who had
witnessed this strange scene, could not suppress a smile.

"I might as well tell you frankly at once, Lucy," he said, "that
Charles is the oddest person, and I think the most perfect boy, at
times, I have ever known."

"I a boy!" cried Hoffland; "I am no such thing!--am I, Lucy--_Miss_
Lucy, I mean, of course? I am not so young as all that, and I see
nothing so strange in wanting a kiss. But I won't misbehave any more;
come now, see!"

And drawing himself up with a delightful expression of dignified
courtesy, Hoffland said, solemnly offering his arm to Lucy:

"Shall I have the honor, Miss Mowbray, of escorting you into the
garden for the purpose of gathering some roses to deck your queenly
brow?"

Lucy would have refused; but overcome with laughter, and unable to
resist the ludicrous solemnity of Hoffland's voice and manner, she
placed her finger on his arm, and they walked into the garden.

Roseland was a delightful little cottage, full of flowers, and
redolent of spring. It fronted south, and seemed to be the favorite of
the sun, which shone through its vine-embowered windows and lit up its
drooping eaves, as it nowhere else did.

A little passage led quite through the house, and by this passage
Hoffland and his fair companion entered the garden.

Mowbray sat down and examined some papers which he took from his
pocket; then trained a flowering vine from the window-sill to a nail
in the wall without, for he was very fond of flowers; then, bethinking
himself that Hoffland was his guest, turned to go into the garden.

As he did so, he caught sight of a horseman approaching the cottage;
and soon this horseman drew near enough to be recognised. It was Mr.
John Denis, whose admiration for Miss Lucy Mowbray our readers have
possibly divined from former pages of this true history.

Mr. Denis dismounted and entered the grounds of the cottage, sending
before him a friendly smile. Denis was one of those honest, worthy
fellows, who are as single-minded as children, and in whose eyes all
men and things are just what they