t
you as a surprise; and this is how my plan has ended."

"But are you allowed? I thought you did not know the owners of this
place."

"Neither do we. He is a retired butcher, I fancy (he doesn't look
anything like as respectable as a grocer), with a fine disregard for
the Queen's English. We called there one day, Letitia and I (nothing
would induce John to accompany us), but Mrs. Butcher was too much for
Letitia,--too much for even me," cries Molly, with a laugh, "and I'm
not particular: so we never called again. They don't bear malice,
however, and rather affect our having our boat here than otherwise.
Jump in and row me for a little while."

Over the water, under the hanging branches they glide to the sweet
music of the wooing wind, and scarcely care to speak, so perfect is the
motion and the stillness.

Luttrell, with his hat off and a cigar between his lips, is far happier
than he himself is at all aware. Being of necessity opposite her, he is
calmly feasting himself upon the sweet scenery of Molly's face, or else
letting his eyes wander to where her slender fingers drag their way
through the cool water, leaving small bubbles in their track.

"It is a pity the country is so stupid, is it not?" says Molly,
breaking the silence at length, and speaking in a regretful tone.
"Because otherwise there is no place like it."

"Some country places are not at all stupid. There are generally too
many people about. I think Brooklyn's principal charm is its repose,
its complete separation from the world."

"Well, for my own part," seriously, "I think I would excuse the repose
and the separation from the world, by which, I suppose, you mean
society. I have no admiration for cloisters and convents myself; I like
amusement, excitement. If I could, I would live in London all the year
round," concludes Molly, with growing animation.

"Oh, horror!" exclaims Luttrell, who, seven years before, thought
exactly as she does now, and who occasionally thinks so still. "Who that
ever lived for six months among all its grime and smoke and turmoil but
would pine for this calmer life?"

"I lived there for more than six months," says Molly, "and I didn't
pine for anything. I thought it charming. It is all very well for
you"--dejectedly--"who are tired of gayety, to go into raptures over
calmness and tranquillity, and that; but if you lived in Brooklyn from
summer until winter and from winter back again to summer, and if you
could coun