ttle cool, shy hand.

"Not _friends_," says the young man, in a low, passionate tone,
clasping her hand eagerly: "it is too cold a word. I _cannot_ be
your friend. Your lover, your slave, if you will; only let me feel
_near_ to you. Molly,"--abandoning her slender fingers for the far
sweeter possession of herself, and folding his arms around her with
gentle audacity,--"speak to me. Why are you so silent? Why do you not
even look at me? You cannot want me to tell you of the love that is
consuming me, because you know of it."

"I don't think you ought to speak to me like this at all," says Molly,
severely, drawing herself out of his embrace, not hurriedly or angrily,
but surely; "I am almost positive you should not; and--and John might
not like it."

"I don't care a farthing what John likes," exclaims Luttrell, rather
forcibly, giving wings to his manners, as his wrongs of the evening
blossom. "What has he or any one to do with it but you and I alone? The
question is, do _you_ like it?"

"I am not at all sure that I do," says Molly, doubtfully, with a little
distracting shake of her head. "You are so vehement, and I----"

"Don't go on," interrupts he, hastily. "You are going to say something
unkind, and I won't listen to it. I know it by your eyes. Darling, why
are you so cruel to me? Surely you must care for me, be it ever such a
little. To think otherwise would---- But I will _not_ think it.
Molly,"--with increasing fervor,--"say you will marry me."

"But indeed I can't," exclaims Miss Massereene, retreating a step or
two, and glancing at him furtively from under her long lashes. "At
least"--relenting a little, as she sees his face change and whiten at
her words--"not _yet_. It is all so sudden, so unexpected; and you
forget I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Now, the
curates"--with an irrepressible smile--"never went on like this: they
always behaved modestly and with such propriety."

"'The curates!' What do they know about it?" returns this young man,
most unjustly. "Do you suppose I love you like a curate?"

"And yet, when all is told, I suppose a curate is a man," says Molly,
uncertainly, as one doubtful of the truth of her assertion, "and a
well-behaved one, too. Now, you are quite different; and you have known
me such a little time."

"What has time to do with it? The beginning and the ending of the whole
matter is this: I love you!"

He is holding her hands and gazing down into her face with