vening to a dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms, and
which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when they got in.

"Julian," whispered De Vayne as they went away, "would you mind my
sending that herb Paris to Vi--I beg pardon, to Miss Home, to your
sister."

"Oh dear, yes, if you like," said Julian carelessly, surprised at the
earnestness of his manner about such a trifle.

"It's only, you know, because Miss Home had heard that they were to be
found near Camford, and asked me to get her one for her herbarium."

"Oh, very well, send it by all means. I shouldn't like you to break a
promise."

"Thank you," said De Vayne; "and I suppose that Miss Home wouldn't mind
my sending it in a letter."

"Certainly not," said Julian, laughing; "I've no doubt she'll be highly
flattered. Here's the plant. Good-night."

"What could he have meant," thought he, "by making such a fuss about the
trifolium, and by blushing so when Kennedy chaffed him? He surely can't
have fallen in love with my dear little Vi." Now he thought of it, many
indications seemed to show that such was really the case, and Julian
contemplated the thought with singular pleasure. It did him good by
diverting his attention from all harassing topics, and knowing that
Violet was well worthy of Lord De Vayne, and could make him truly happy,
while his high character and cultivated intellect rendered him well
suited for her, he hoped in his secret heart that some day might see
them united.

But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant, dressed it
carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope, and then with a thrill of
exquisite emotion sat down to write his letter to Violet Home.

"Dear Violet," he wrote, after having chosen a good sheet of note-paper
and a first-rate pen, "you remember that I promised to find you a--"

"Dear Violet--no, that won't quite do," he said, as he read over what he
had written, "at least not yet. How pretty it looks! What a charming
name it is! I wish I might leave it, it does look so happy. I wonder
whether it would do to call her Violet? No, I suppose not; at least not
yet--not yet!" and the young viscount let his fancy wander away to Other
Hall, and there by the grand old fireplace in the drawing-room he placed
in imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair, and a smile
that lighted up an angel face,--and by her side he sat down, and let his
thoughts wander through a vista of golden years.