of
pretty things."

As she opens the case and sees within it, lying on its purple velvet
bed, a large dull gold locket, with a wreath of raised forget-me-nots
in turquoises and enamel on one side, she forms her lips into a round
"Oh!" of admiration and delight, more satisfactory than any words.

"Do you like it? I am so glad! I saw it one day, quite accidentally, in
a window, and at once it reminded me of you. I thought it would exactly
suit you. Do you remember down by the river-side that night, after our
first important quarrel, when I asked you to marry me?"

"I remember," softly.

"You had forget-me-nots in your hands then, and in your dress. I can
never forget you, as you looked at that moment; and those flowers will
ever be associated with you in my mind. Surely they are the prettiest
that grow. I call them 'my sweet love's flower.'"

"How fond you are of me!" she says, wistfully, something like moisture
in her eyes, "and," turning her gaze again upon his gift, "you are too
good: you are always thinking how to please me. There is only one thing
wanting to make this locket perfect," raising her liquid eyes to his
again, "and that is your face inside it."

At which words, you may be sure, Luttrell is repaid over and over again
all the thought and care he has expended on the choosing of the
trinket.

"And so you are not in love with Herst?" he says, presently, as they
move on through the sweet wood, his arm around her.

"With Herst? No, I have no fault to find with Herst; the place is
beautiful. But I confess I do not care about my grandfather or Marcia:
of the two I prefer my grandfather, but that is saying very little.
Philip alone has been very nice to me,--indeed, more than kind."

"More! What does Marcia say to that?"

"Oh, there is nothing between them; I am sure of that. They either hate
each other or else familiarity has bred contempt between them, and they
avoid each other all they can, and never speak unless compelled. For
instance, she says to him, 'Tea or coffee, Philip?' and he makes her a
polite reply; or he says to her, 'Shall I stir the fire for you?' and
she makes _him_ a polite reply. But it can hardly be called a
frantic attachment."

"Like ours?" laughing and bending his tall slight figure to look into
her face.

"In our case you have all the franticness to yourself," she says; but
as she says it she puts her own soft little hand over the one that
encircles her waist, to take the