re quite sure no one could
accuse me of taking advantage of John's and Letty's absence to be
frivolous in my conversation?"

"Utterly positive."

"And you will tell John what a sedate and gentle companion I was?"

"I will indeed, and more,--much more."

"On the contrary, not a word more: if you do you will spoil all. And
now," says Molly, with a little soft, lingering smile, "as a reward for
your promises, come with me to the top of yonder hill, and I will show
you a lovely view."

"Is it not delicious here?" suggests Mr. Luttrell, who can scarcely be
called energetic, and who finds it a difficult matter to grow
enthusiastic over landscapes when oppressed by a broiling sun.

"What! tired already?" says Molly, with fine disregard of subterfuge.

"No, oh, no," weakly.

"But you _are_," reproachfully. "You are quite _done up_.
Why, what would you do if you were ordered on a long day's march?"

"I dare say I should survive it," says Tedcastle, shortly, who is
rather offended at her putting it in this light.

"Well, perhaps you might; but you certainly would have nothing to boast
of. Now, look at me: I am as fresh as when we started." And in truth,
as she stands before him, in her sky-blue gown, he sees she is as cool
and bright and unruffled as when they left the house three-quarters of
an hour ago. "Well," with a resigned sigh that speaks of
disappointment, "stay here until I run up,--I love the place,--and I
will join you afterward."

"Not I!" indignantly. "I'm good yet for so much exertion, and I don't
believe I could exist without you for so long. 'Call, and I follow--I
follow,' even _though_ 'I die,'" he adds to himself, in a tone of
melancholy.

Up the short but steep hill they toil in silence. Halfway Miss
Massereene pauses, either to recover breath or to give encouragement.

"On the top there is always a breeze," she says, in the voice one
adopts when determined to impress upon the listener what one's own
heart knows to be doubtful.

"Is there?" says Luttrell, gloomily, and with much disbelief.

At length they gain the wished-for top. They stand together, Molly with
her usually pale cheeks a little flushed by the exercise, but otherwise
calm and collected; Luttrell decidedly the worse for wear. And, yes,
there actually _is_ a breeze,--a sighing, rustling, unmistakable
breeze, that rushes through their hair and through their fingers, and
is as a draught from Olympus.

"There, didn't I tell you?"