nding cigar, looking taller, more unbending in his evening
clothes, helped by the dignity of his wrongs. Miss Massereene, having
indulged in a long examination of his would-be stern profile, decides
on the spot that if there is one thing on earth toward which she bears
a rancorous hatred it is an ill-tempered man. What does he mean by
standing there without speaking to her? She makes an undying vow that,
were he so to stand forever, she would not open her lips to him; and
exactly sixty seconds after making that terrible vow she says,--oh, so
sweetly!--"Mr. Luttrell!"

He instantly pitches the obnoxious cigar into the water, where it dies
away with an angry fizz, and turns to her.

She is standing a few yards distant from him, with her head a little
bent and the bunch of forget-me-nots in one hand, moving them slowly,
slowly across her lips. There is penitence, coquetry, mischief, a
thousand graces in her attitude.

Now, feeling his eyes upon her, she moves the flowers about three
inches from her mouth, and, regarding them lovingly, says, "Are not
they pretty!" as though her whole soul is wrapt in contemplation of
their beauty, and as though no other deeper thought has led her to
address him.

"Very. They are like your eyes," replies he, gravely, and with some
hesitation, as if the words came reluctantly.

This is a concession, and so she feels it. A compliment to a true woman
comes never amiss; and the knowledge that it has been wrung from him
against his will, being but a tribute to its truth, adds yet another
charm. Without appearing conscious of the fact, she moves a few steps
nearer to him, always with her eyes bent upon the flowers, the grass,
anywhere but on him: because you will understand how impossible it is
for one person to drink in the full beauty of another if checked by
that other's watchfulness. Molly, at all events, understands it
thoroughly.

When she is quite close to him, so close that if she stirs her dress
must touch him, so close that her flower-like face is dangerously near
his arm, she whispers, softly:

"I am sorry."

"Are you?" says Luttrell, stupidly, although his heart is throbbing
passionately, although every pulse is beating almost to pain. If his
life depended upon it, or perhaps because of it, he can frame no more
eloquent speech.

"Yes," murmurs Molly, with a thorough comprehension of all he is
feeling. "And now we will be friends again, will we not?" Holding out
to him a li