ronounced, she raised her beautiful grey eyes from the
garland in her lap; and I could perceive, from a sudden gleam of
intelligence which shot through them for an instant, that I was at once
recognised:--from my face, I'm sure, she must have noticed that _she_
had not been forgotten.

I was in heaven; I would not have relinquished my position, kneeling at
her feet and stripping off ivy leaves for her use, no, not for a
dukedom!

Our conversation became again imperceptibly of a higher tone. Hers was
light, sparkling, brilliant; and one could see that she possessed a fund
of native drollery within herself, despite her demure looks and downcast
eyes. She had a sweet, low voice, "that most excellent thing in woman;"
while her light, silvery laughter rippled forth ever and anon, like a
chime of well-tuned bells, enchaining me as would chords of Offenbach's
champagne music.

In comparison with her, Lizzie Dangler's prosy platitudes, which some
deemed wit--Horner, par exemple--sank into nothingness, and Baby Blake,
one of the "gushing" order of girlhood, appeared as a stick, or, rather,
a too pliant sapling--her inane "yes's" and lisping "no's" having an
opportunity of being "weighed in the balance," and consequently, in my
opinion, "found wanting." All were mediocre beside her. Perhaps I was
prejudiced; but, now, the remarks of the other girls seemed to me
singularly silly.

From light badinage, we got talking of literature. Some one, Mr Mawley
the curate, I think, drew a parallel between Douglas Jerrold and
Thackeray, describing both, in his blunt, dogmatic way, as cynics.

To this I immediately demurred. In the first place, because Mawley was
so antipathetical to me, that I dearly loved to combat his assertions;
and, secondly, on account of his disparaging my beau ideal of all that
is grand and good in a writer and in man.

"You make a great mistake," I said, "for Thackeray is a satirist pur et
simple. Jerrold was a cynic, if you please, although he had a wonderful
amount of kindly feeling even in his bitterest moods--indeed I would
rather prefer calling him a one-sided advocate of the poor against the
rich, than apply to him your opprobrious term."

"Well, cynic or satirist, I should like to know what great difference
lies between the two?" the curate retorted, glad of an argument, and
wishing, as usual, to display his critical acumen by demolishing me.

"I will tell you with pleasure," said I, not a bit "