erything.
Is that a hopeful sign?" With a playful smile.

"I will try to think so; and--don't go yet, Molly." Seeing her about to
enter the drawing-room. "Surely, if tea is to be on the lawn, it is
there we ought to go."

"I am half afraid of you. If I consent to bestow upon you a little more
of my society, will you promise not to talk in--in--that way again to
me?"

"But----"

"I will have no 'buts.' Promise what I ask, or I will hide myself from
you for the rest of the day."

"I swear, then," says he; and, so protected, Miss Massereene ventures
down the balcony steps and accompanies him to the shaded end of the
lawn.

By this time it is nearly five o'clock, and as yet oppressively warm.
The evening is coming with a determination to rival in dull heat the
early part of the day. The sheep in great white snowy patches lie
panting in the distant corners of the adjoining fields; the cows, tired
of whisking their foolish tails in an unsuccessful war with the
insatiable flies, are all huddled together, and give way to mournful
lows that reproach the tarrying milkmaid.

Above in the branches a tiny bird essays to sing, but stops half
stifled, and, forgetting the tuneful note, contents itself with a lazy
"cluck-cluck" that presently degenerates still further into a dying
"coo" that is hardly musical, because so full of sleep.

Molly has seated herself upon the soft young grass, beneath the shade
of a mighty beech, against the friendly trunk of which she leans her
back. Even this short walk from the house to the six stately beeches
that are the pride and glory of Brooklyn has told upon her. Her usually
merry eyes have subsided into a gentle languor; over them the white
lids droop heavily. No little faintest tinge of color adorns her pale
cheeks; upon her lap her hands lie idle, their very listlessness
betokening the want of energy they feel.

At about two yards' distance from her reclines her guest, full length,
his fingers interlaced behind his head, looking longer, slighter than
usual, as with eyes upturned he gazes in silence upon the far-off,
never-changing blue showing through the net-work of the leaves above
him.

"Are you quite used up?" asks Molly, in the slow, indifferent tone that
belongs to heat, as the crisp, gay voice belongs to cold. "I never
heard you silent for so long before. Do you think you are likely to
_die_? Because--don't do it here, please: it would give me such a
shock."

"I am far more