"We are here, at this loveliest of lovely places; but we have got enough of it, and are going to spend some weeks in the Tyrol. I suppose I know where to imagine you, at least part of the summer. And you will know where to imagine me next winter, when I tell you that in the fall the probability is that I shall become Mrs. St. Leger. You may tell Dolly. Didn't I remark to her once that she and I had better effect an exchange? Funny, wasn't it? However, for the present I am, as I have long been, your very sincere friend, CHRISTINA THAYER."

Dolly read the letter and stared at it, and finally returned it without raising her eyes. And then she sat looking straight before her, while her face might be likened to the evening sky when the afterglow is catching the clouds. From point to point the flush catches, cloud after cloud is lighted up, until under the whole heaven there is one crimson glow. Dolly was not much given to blushing, she was not at all wont to be a prey to shyness; what had come over her now? When Lawrence St. Leger had talked to her on this very same subject, she had been able to answer him with scarcely a rise of colour in her cheeks; with a calm and cool exercise of her reasoning powers, which left her fully mistress of the situation and of herself. She had not been disturbed then, she had not been excited. What was the matter now? For Dolly was overtaken by an invincible fit of shyness, such as never had visited her in all her life. I do not think now she knew that she was blushing; according to her custom, she was not self-conscious; what she was conscious of, intensely, was Mr. Shubrick's presence, and an overwhelming sense of his identity with the midshipman of the "Achilles." What that had to do with Dolly's shyness, it might be hard to tell; but her sweet face flushed till brow and neck caught the tinge, and the eyelids fell over the eyes, and Dolly for the moment was mistress of nothing. Mr. Shubrick looking at her, and seeing those lovely flushes and her absolute gravity and silence, was in doubt what it might mean. He thought that perhaps nobody had ever spoken to her on such a subject before; yet Dolly was no silly girl, to be overcome by the mere strangeness of his words. Did her silence and gravity augur ill for him? or well? And then, without being in the least a coxcomb, it occurred to him that her excessive blushing told on the hopeful side of the account. He waited. He saw she was as shy as a just caught bird; was she caught? He would not make so much as a movement to startle her further. He waited, with something at his heart which made it easier every moment for him to wait. But in the nature of the case, waiting has its limits.

"What are you going to do about it?" he inquired at length, in a very gentle manner. "Give me my note back again, with the conditions?"

Dolly did nothing of the kind. She held the note, it is true, and looked at it, but without making any movement to restore it to its owner. So decided an action did not seem at the moment possible to her. She looked at the little note, with the prettiest sort of embarrassment, and presently rose to her feet. "I am sure it is time to have supper," she said, "and they cannot do anything at home till I come."

Mr. Shubrick rose too and followed Dolly, who set off unceremoniously down the bank towards the bridge. He followed her, half smiling, and wholly impatient. Yet though a stride or two would have brought him alongside of her, he would not make them. He kept behind, and allowed her to trip on before him, which she did with a light, hasty foot, until they neared the little gate of the courtyard belonging to the house. Then he stepped forward and held the gate open for her to enter, not saying a word. Dolly passed him with the loveliest shy down-casting of her eyelids, and went on straight into the house. He saw the bird was fluttering yet, but he thought he was sure of her.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

UNDER THE SAME OAK.

Dolly threw off her hat and went down to the kitchen premises. Mr. Shubrick repaired to the sick-room and relieved Mrs. Copley. That lady, descending to the lower part of the house, found Dolly very busy with the supper-table, and apparently much flushed with the hot weather.

"Your father's getting well!" she said with a sigh.

"That's good news, I am sure, mother."

"Yes,—it's good news," Mrs. Copley repeated doubtfully; "but it seems as if everything good in this world had a bad side to it."

Dolly stood still. "What's the matter?" she said.

"Oh, he's so uneasy. As restless end fidgetty as a fish out of water. He is contented with nothing except when Mr. Shubrick is near him; he behaves quietly then, at least, however he feels. I believe it takes a man to manage a man. Though I never saw a man before that could manage your father. He laughs at it, and says it is the habit of giving orders."

"Who laughs at it?"

"Mr. Shubrick, to be sure. You don't suppose your father owns to minding orders? But he does mind, for all that. What will become of us when that young man goes away?"

"Why, mother?"

"My patience, Dolly! what have you done to heat yourself so! Your face is all flushed. Do keep away from the fire, or you'll certainly spoil your complexion. You're all flushed up, child."

"But father,—what about father?"

"Oh, he's just getting ready to take his own head, as soon as Mr. Shubrick slips the bridle off. He's talking of going up to town already; and he will go, I know, as soon as he can go; and then, Dolly, then—I don't know what will become of us!"

Mrs. Copley put her hands over her face, and the last words were spoken with such an accent of forlorn despair, that Dolly saw her mother must have found out or divined much that she had tried to keep from her. She hesitated with her answer. Somehow, the despair and the forlornness had gone out of Dolly's heart.

"I hope—I think—there will be some help, mother."

"Where is it to come from?" said Mrs. Copley sharply. "We are as alone as we can be. We might as well be on a desert island. Now you have sent off Mr. St. Leger—oh, how obstinate children are! and how little they know what is for their good!"

This subject was threadbare. Dolly let it drop. It may be said she did that with every subject that was started that evening. Mr. Shubrick at supper made brave efforts to keep the talk a going; but it would not go. Dolly said nothing; and Mrs. Copley in the best of times was never much help in a conversation. Just now she had rather a preoccupied manner; and I am by no means certain that, with the superhuman keenness of intuition possessed by mothers, she had not begun to discern a subtle danger in the air. The pressure of one fear being removed, there was leisure for any other to come up. However, Mr. Shubrick concerned himself only about Dolly's silence, and watched her to find out what it meant. She attended to all her duties, even to taking care of him, which to be sure was one of her duties; but she never looked at him. The same veil of shy grace which had fallen upon her in the wood, was around her still, and tantalised him.

Nor did he get another chance to speak to her alone through the next two days that passed; carefully as he sought for it. Dolly was not to be found or met with, unless sitting at the table behind her tea-urn and with her mother opposite. Mr. Shubrick bided his time in a mixture of patience and impatience. The latter needs no accounting for; the former was half brought about and maintained by the exquisite manner of Dolly's presentation of herself those days. The delicate, coy grace which invested her, it is difficult to describe it or the effect of it. She was not awkward, she was not even embarrassed, the least bit in the world; she was grave and fair and unapproachable, with the rarest maidenly shyness, which took the form of the rarest womanly dignity. She was grave, at least when Mr. Shubrick saw her; but watching her as he did narrowly and constantly, he could perceive now and then a slight break in the gravity of her looks, which made his heart bound with a great thrill. It was not so much a smile as a light upon her lips; a play of them; which he persuaded himself was not unhappy. The loveliness of the whole manifestation of Dolly during those two days, went a good way towards keeping him quiet; but naturally it worked two ways. And human patience has limits.

The second day, Mr. Shubrick's had given out. He came in from his walk to the village, bringing Mrs. Copley something she had commissioned him to get from thence; and found both ladies sitting at a late dinner. And not the young officer's eyes alone marked the sudden flush which rose in Dolly's cheeks when he appeared, and the lowered eyelids as he stood opposite her.

"We began to review the park, the other day," he said, eyeing her steadily. "Can we have another walk in it this afternoon, Miss Dolly? The first was so pleasant."

"I shouldn't think you'd go pleasuring just now, Dolly, when your father wants you," said Mrs. Copley. "You have seen hardly anything of him lately. I should think you would go and sit with him this afternoon. I know he would like it."

Whether this arrangement was agreeable to the present parties concerned, or either of them, did not appear. Of course the most decorous acquiescence was all that came to light. A little later, Mr. Shubrick himself, being thus relieved from duty, quitted the house and strolled down to the bridge and over it into the park; and Dolly slowly went upstairs to her father's room. It was true, she had been there lately less than usual; but there had been a reason for that. Her conscience was not charged with any neglect.

Mr. Copley seemed sleepily inclined; and after a word or two exchanged with him Dolly began to go round the room, looking to see if anything needed her ordering hand. Truly she found nothing. Coming to the window, she paused a moment in idle wistfulness to see how the summer sunshine lay upon the oaks of the park. And standing there, she saw Mr. Shubrick, slowly going over the bridge. She turned away and went on with her progress round the room.

"What are you about there, Dolly?" Mr. Copley called to her.

"Just seeing if anything wants my attention, father."

"Nothing does, I can tell you. The room is all right, and everything in it. I've been kept in order, since I have had a naval officer to attend upon me."

"Don't I keep things in order, father?"

"If you do, your mother don't. She thinks that anywhere is a place, and that one place is as good as another."

"Mother seems to think I have neglected you lately. Have you missed me?"

"Missed you! no. I have had care and company. Where did you pick up that young man, Dolly?"

"I, father? I didn't pick him up."

"How came he here, then? What brought him?"

"I don't know," said Dolly. "Would you like to have me read to you?"

"No, child. Shubrick reads to me and talks to me. He's capital company, though he's one of your blue sort."

"Father! He is not blue, nor am I. Do you think I am blue?"

"Sky blue," said her father. "He's navy blue. That's the difference."

"I do not understand the difference," said Dolly, half laughing.

"Never mind. What have you done with Mr. Shubrick?"

"I?" said Dolly, aghast.

"Yes. Where is he?"

"Oh!—I believe, mother sent him into the park."

"Sent him into the park? What for?"

"I do not mean that she sent him," said Dolly, correcting herself in some embarrassment; "I mean, that she sent me up here, and he went into the park."

"I wish he'd come back, then. I want him to finish reading to me that capital article on English and European politics."

"Can I finish it?"

"No, child. You don't understand anything about the subject. Shubrick does. I like to discuss things with him; he's got a clear head of his own; he's a capital talker. When is he going?"

"Going where, father?"

"Going away. He can't stay here for ever, reading politics and putting my room in order. How long is he going to stay?"

"I do not know."

"Well—when he goes I shall go! I shall not be able to hold out here. I shall go back to London. I can't live where there is not a man to speak to some time in the twenty-four hours. Besides, I can do nothing here. I might as well be a cabbage, and a cabbage without a head to it."

"Are we cabbages?" asked Dolly at this. "Mother and I?"

"Cabbage roses, my dear; cabbage roses. Nothing worse than that."

"But even cabbage roses, father, want somebody to take care of them."

"I'll take care of you. But I can do it best in London."

"Then you do not want me to read to you father?" Dolly said after a pause.

"No, my dear, no, my dear. If you could find that fellow Shubrick—I should like him."

And Mr. Copley closed his eyes as if to sleep, finding nothing worthy to occupy his waking faculties. Dolly sat by the window, looking out and meditating. Yes, Mr. Shubrick would be going away, probably soon; his furlough could not last always. Meanwhile, she had given him no answer to his questions and propositions. It was rather hard upon him, Dolly felt; and she had a sort of yearning sympathy towards her suitor. A little impatience seized her at being shut up here in her father's room, where he did not want her, and kept from the walk in the park with Mr. Shubrick, who did want her. He wanted her very much, Dolly knew; he had been waiting patiently, and she had disappointed every effort he made to get speech of her and see her alone, just because she was shy of him and of herself. But it was hardly fair to him, after all, and it could not go on. He had a right to know what she would say to his proposition; and she was keeping him in uneasiness, (to put it mildly), Dolly knew quite well. And now, when could she see him? when would she have a chance to speak to him alone, and to hear all that she yet wanted to hear? but indeed Dolly now was thinking not so much of what she wanted as of what he wanted; and her uneasiness grew. He might be obliged to go off suddenly; officers' orders are stubborn things; she might have no chance at all, for aught she knew, after this afternoon. She looked at her father; he had dozed off. She looked out of the window; the afternoon sun, sinking away in the west, was sending a flood of warm light upon and among the trees of the park. It must be wonderfully pretty there! It must be vastly pleasant there! And there, perhaps, Mr. Shubrick was sitting at this moment on the bank, wishing for her, and feeling impatiently that his free time was slipping away. Dolly's heart stirred uneasily. She had been very shy of him; she was yet; but now she felt that he had a right to his answer. Something that took the guise of conscience opposed her shy reserve and fought with it. Mr. Shubrick had a right to his answer; and she was not treating him well to let him go without it.

Dolly looked again at her father. Eyes closed, breathing indicative of gentle slumber. She looked again over at the sunlit park. It was delicious over there, among its sunny and shadowy glades. Perhaps Mr. Shubrick had walked on, tempted by the beauty, and was now at a distance; perhaps he had not been tempted, and was still near, up there among the trees, wanting to see her.

Dolly turned away from the window and with a quick step went downstairs. She met nobody. Her straw flat was on the hall table; she took it up and went out; through the garden, down to the bridge, over the bridge, with a step not swift but steady. Mr. Shubrick had a right to his answer, and she was simply doing what was his due, and there might be no time to lose. She went a little more slowly when she found herself in the park; and she trembled a little as her eye searched the grassy openings. She was not quite so confident here. But she went on.

She had not gone very far before she saw him; under the same oak where they had sat together; lying on his elbow on the turf and reading. Dolly started, but then advanced slowly, after that one minute's check and pause. He was reading; he did not see her, and he did not hear her light footstep coming up the bank; until her figure threw a shadow which reached him. Then he looked up and sprang up; and perhaps divining it, met Dolly's hesitation, for, taking her hands he placed her on the bank beside his open book; which book, Dolly saw, was his Bible. But her shyness had all come back. The impression made by the thought of a person, when you do not see him, is something quite different from the living and breathing flesh and blood personality. Mr. Shubrick, on the other hand, was in a widely different mood; which Dolly knew, I suppose, though she could not see.

"This is unlooked-for happiness," said he, throwing himself down on the bank beside her. "What have you done with Mr. Copley?"

"Nothing. He did not want me. He asked me what I had done with Mr. Shubrick? I think you have spoiled him." Dolly spoke without looking at her companion, be it understood, and her breath came a little short.

"And what are you going to do with Mr. Shubrick?" her companion said, not in the tone of a doubtful man, lying there on the bank and watching her.

But Dolly found no words. She could not say anything, well though she recognised Mr. Shubrick's right to have his answer. Her eyes were absolutely cast down; the colour on her cheek varied a little, yet not with the overwhelming flushes of the other day. Dolly was struggling with the sense of duty, the necessity for action, and yet she could not act. She had come to the scene of action, indeed, and there her bravery failed her; and she sat with those delicate lights coming and going on her cheek, and the brown eyes hidden behind the sweep of the lowered eyelashes; most like a shy child. Mr. Shubrick could have smiled, but he kept back the smile.

"You know," he said in calm, matter-of-fact tones, that met Dolly's sense of business, "my action must wait upon your decision. If you do not let me stay, I must go, and that at once. What do you want me to do?"

"I do not want you to go," Dolly breathed softly.

Silently Mr. Shubrick held out his hand. As silently, though frankly, Dolly put hers into it. Still she did not look at him. And he recognised what sort of a creature he was dealing with, and had sense and delicacy and tact and manliness enough not to startle her by any demonstration whatever. He only held the little hand, still and fast, for a space, during which neither of them said anything; then, however, he bent his head over the hand and kissed it.

"My fingers are not accustomed to such treatment," said Dolly, half laughing, and trying hard to strike into an ordinary tone of conversation, though she left him the hand. "I do not think they ever were kissed before."

"They have got to learn!" said her companion.

Dolly was silent again. It was with a great joy at her heart that she felt her hand so clasped and held, and knew that Mr. Shubrick had got his answer and the thing was done; but she did not show it, unless to a nice observer. And a nice observer was by her side. Yet he kept silence too for a while. It was one of those full, blessed silences that are the very reverse of a blank or a void; when the heart's big treasure is too much to be immediately unpacked, and words when they come are quite likely enough not to touch it and to go to something comparatively indifferent. However, words did not just that on the present occasion.

"Dolly, I am in a sort of amazement at my own happiness," Mr. Shubrick said.

Dolly could have answered, so was she! but she did not. She only dimpled a little, and flushed.

"I have been waiting for you all these years," he went on; "and now I have got you!"

Dolly's dimples came out a little more. "I thought you did not wait," she remarked.

Mr. Shubrick laughed. "My heart waited," he said. "I made a boy's mistake; and I might have paid a man's penalty for it. But I had always known that you and no other would be my wife, if I could find you. That is, if I could persuade you; and somehow I never allowed myself to doubt of that. I did not take such a chance into consideration."

"But I was such a little child," said Dolly.

"Ay," said he; "that was it. You were such a little child."

"But you must have been a very extraordinary midshipman, it seems to me."

"By the same rule you must have been a very extraordinary little girl."

They both laughed at that.

"I suppose we were both extraordinary," said Dolly; "but, really, Mr. Shubrick, you know very little about me!"

His answer to that was to kiss again the hand he held.

"What do you know of me?"

"I think I know a great deal about you," said Dolly softly.

"You have a great deal to learn. Wouldn't you like to begin by hearing how Miss Thayer and I came to an understanding?"

"Oh, yes, yes! if you please," said Dolly, extremely glad to get upon a more abstract subject of conversation.

"I owe that to myself, perhaps," Mr. Shubrick went on; "and I certainly owe it to you. I told you how I got into my engagement with her. It was a boyish fancy; but all the same, I was bound by it; and I should have been legally bound before now, only that Christina always put off that whenever I proposed it. I found too that the putting it off did not make me miserable. Dolly, the case is going to be different this time!"

"You mean," said Dolly doubtfully, "it is going to make you miserable?"

"No! I mean, you are not going to put me off."

"Oh, but!"——said Dolly flushing, and stopped.

"I have settled that point in my own mind," he said, smiling; "it is as well you should know it at once.—So time went by, until I went to spend that Christmas Day in Rome. After that day I knew nearly all that I know now. Of course it followed, that I could not accept the invitation to Sorrento, when you were expected to be there. I could not venture to see you again while I was bound in honour to another woman. I stayed on board ship, those hot summer days, when all the officers that could went ashore. I stayed and worked at my problem—what I was to do."

He paused and Dolly said nothing. She was listening intently, and entirely forgetting that the sunlight was coming very slant and would soon be gone, and that home and supper were waiting for her managing hand. Dolly's eyes were fixed upon another hand, which held hers, and her ears were strained to catch every word. She rarely dared glance at Mr. Shubrick's face.

"I wonder what counsel you would have given me?" he went on,—"if I could have asked it of you as an indifferent person,—which you were."

"I don't know," said Dolly. "I know what people think"——

"Yes, I knew what people think, too; and it a little embarrassed my considerations. However, Dolly, I made up my mind at last to this;—that to marry Christina would be acting a lie; that I could not do that; and that if I could, a lie to be acted all my life long would be too heavy for me. Negatively, I made up my mind. Positively, I did not know exactly how I should work it. But I must see Christina. And as soon as affairs on board ship permitted, I got a furlough of a few days and went to Sorrento. I got there one lovely afternoon, about three weeks after you had gone. Sea and sky and the world generally were flooded with light and colour, so as I have never seen them anywhere else, it seems to me. You know how it is."

"Yes, I know Sorrento," said Dolly. But just then, an English bank under English oaks seemed as good to the girl as ever an Italian paradise. That, naturally, she did not show. "I know Sorrento," she said quietly.

"And you know the Thayers' villa. I found Christina and Mr. St. Leger sitting on the green near the house, under an orange tree—symbolical; and the air was sweet with a thousand other things. I felt it with a kind of oppression, for the mental prospect was by no means so delicious."

"No," said Dolly. "And sometimes that feeling of contrast makes one very keen to see all the lovely things outside of one."

"Do you know that?" said Mr. Shubrick.

"Yes. I know it"

"One can only know it by experience. What experience can you have had, my Dolly, to let you feel it?"

Dolly turned her eyes on him without speaking. She was thinking of Venice at midnight under the moon, and a sail, and a wine-shop. Tell him? No, indeed, never!

"You are not ready to let me know?" said he, smiling. "How long first must it be?"

"It isn't anything you need know," said Dolly, looking away. But with that the question flashed upon her, would he not have to know? had he not a right? "Please go on," she said hurriedly.

"I can go on now easier than I could then," he said with a half laugh. "I sat down with them, and purposely brought the conversation upon the theme of my trouble. It came quite naturally, apropos of a case of a broken engagement which was much talked of just then; and I started my question. Suppose one or the other of the parties had discovered that the engagement was a mistake? They gave it dead against me; all of them; Mrs. Thayer had come out by that time. They were unanimous in deciding that pledges made must be kept, at all hazards."

"I think that is the general view," said Dolly.

"It is not yours?"

"I never thought much about it. But I think people ought always and everywhere to be true.—That is nothing to kiss my hand for," Dolly added with the pretty flush which was coming and going so often this afternoon.

"You will let me judge of that."

"I didn't think you were that sort of person."

"What sort of person?"

"One of those that kiss hands."

"Shall I choose something else to kiss, next time?"

But Dolly looked so frightened that Mr. Shubrick, laughing, went back to his story.

"We were at Sorrento," he said. "You can suppose my state of mind. I thought at least I would take disapprobation piecemeal, and I asked Christina to go out on the bay with me. You have been on the bay of Sorrento about sun-setting?"

"Oh yes, many a time."

"I did not enjoy it at first. I hope you did. I think Christina did. It was the fairest evening imaginable; and my oar, every stroke I made, broke and shivered purple and golden waters. It was sailing over the rarest possible mosaic in which the pattern was constantly shifting. I studied it, while I was studying how to begin what I had to do. Then, after a while, when we were well out from shore, I lay on my oars, and asked Miss Thayer whether she were sure that her judgment was according to her words, in the matter we had been discussing at the house? She asked what I meant. I put it to her then, whether she would choose to marry a man who liked another woman better than he did herself?

"Christina's eyes opened a little, and she said 'Not if she knew it.'

"'Then you gave a wrong verdict up there,' I said.

"'But that was about what the man should do,' she replied. 'If he has made a promise, he must fulfil it. Or the woman, if it is the woman.'

"'Would not that be doing a wrong to the other party?'

"'How a wrong?' said Christina. 'It would be keeping a promise. Every honourable person does that.'

"'What if it be a promise which the other side no longer wishes to have kept?'

"'You cannot tell that,' said Christina. 'You cannot know. Probably the other side does wish it kept.'

"I reminded her that she had just declared she, in the circumstances, would not wish it; but she said, somewhat illogically, 'that it made no difference.'

"I suggested an application of the golden rule."

"Yes," said Dolly; "I think that rule settles it. I should think no woman would let a man marry her who, she knew, liked somebody else better."

"And no man in his senses—no good man," said Sandie, "would have a woman for his wife whose heart belonged to another man; or, leaving third parties out of the question, whose heart did not belong to him. I said something of this to Christina. She answered me with the consequences of scandal, disgrace, gossip, which she said attend the breaking off of an engagement. In short, she threw over all my arguments. I had to come to the point. I asked her if she would like to marry me, if she knew that I liked somebody else better?

"She opened her eyes at me. 'Do you, Sandie?' she said. And I told her yes.

"'Who?' she asked as quick as a flash. And I knew then that her heart was safe," Mr. Shubrick added with a smile. "I told her frankly, that ever since Christmas Day, I had known that if I ever married anybody it would be the lady I then saw with her.

"'Dolly!' she cried. 'But you don't know her, Sandie.'"

Mr. Shubrick and Dolly both stopped to laugh.

"I am sure that was true. And I should think unanswerable," said Dolly.

"It was not true. Do you think it is true now?"

"Well, you know me a little better, but I should think, not much."

"Shows how little you can tell about it. By the same reasoning, I suppose you do not know me much?"

"No," said Dolly. "Yes, I do! I know you a great deal, in some things. If I didn't"—— she flushed up.

"We both know enough to begin with; is that it? Do you remember, that evening, Christmas Eve, how you sat by the corner of the fireplace and kept quiet, while Miss Thayer talked?"

"Yes." Dolly remembered it very well.

"You wore a black dress, and no ornaments, and the firelight shone on a cameo ring on your hand, and on your face, and the curls of your hair, and every now and then caught this," said Mr. Shubrick, touching Dolly's chain. "Christina talked, and I studied you."

"One evening," said Dolly.

"One evening; but I was reading what was not written in an evening. However, I left Christina's objection unanswered—though I do not allow that it is unanswerable; and waited. She needed a little while to come to her breath."

"Poor Christina!" said Dolly.

"Not at all; it was poor Sandie, if anybody. I do not think Christina suffered, more than a little natural and very excusable mortification. She never loved me. I had guessed as much before, and I was relieved now to find that I had been certainly right. But she needed a little while to get her breath, nevertheless. She asked me if I was serious? then, why I did not tell her sooner? I replied that I had had a great fight to fight before I could make up my mind to tell her at all.

"And then, as I judge, she had something of a fight to go through. She turned her face away from me, and sat silent. I did not interrupt her; and we floated so a good while on the coloured sea. I do not believe she knew what the colours were; but I did, I confess. I had got a weight off my mind. The bay of Sorrento was very lovely to me that evening. After a good while, Christina turned to me again, and I could see that she was all taut and right now. She began with a compliment to me."

"What was it?" Dolly asked.

"Said I was a brave fellow, I believe."

"I am sure I think that was true."

"Do you? It is harder to be false than true, Dolly."

"All the same, it takes bravery sometimes to be true."

"So Christina seemed to think. I believe I said nothing; and she went on, and added she thought I had done right, and she was much obliged to me."

"That was like Christina," said Dolly.

"'But you are bold,' she said again, 'to tell me!'

"I assured her I had not been bold at all, but very cowardly.

"'What do you expect people will say?'

"I told her I had been concerned only and solely with the question of how she herself would take my disclosure; what she would say, and how she would feel.

"She was silent again.

"'But, Sandie,' she began after a minute or two which were not yet pleasant minutes to either of us,—'I think it was very risky. It's all right, or it will be all right, I believe, soon,—but suppose I had been devotedly in love with you? Suppose it had broken my heart? It hasn't—but suppose it had?'"

"Yes," said Dolly. "You could not know."

"I think I knew," said Mr. Shubrick. "But at any rate, Dolly, I should have done just the same. 'Fais que dois, advienne que pourra,' is a grand old motto, and always safe. I could not marry one woman while I loved another. The question of breaking hearts does not come in. I had no right to marry Christina, even to save her life, if that had been in danger. But happily it was not in danger. She did shed a few tears, but they were not the tears of a broken heart. I told her something like what I have been saying to you.

"'But Dolly!' she said. 'You do not know her, you do not even know her.' That thought seemed to weigh on her mind."

"What could you say to it?" said Dolly.

"I said nothing," Mr. Shubrick answered, smiling. "Then Christina went on to remark that Miss Copley did not know me; and that possibly I had been brave for nothing. I still made no answer; and she declared she saw it in my face, that I was determined it should not be for nothing. She wished me success, she added; but 'Dolly had her own way of looking at things.'"

Dolly could not help laughing.

"So that is my story," Mr. Shubrick concluded.

"And, oh, look at the light, look at the light!" said Dolly, jumping up. "Where will mother think I and supper are!"

"She thinks probably that you are in Mr. Copley's room."

"No, she knows I am not; for she is sure to be there herself."

"Then I will go straight to them, while you bring up arrears with supper."

"And Christina will marry Mr. St. Leger!" said Dolly, while she flushed high at this suggestion. "Yet I am not surprised."

"Is it a good match?"

"The world would say so."

"I am not," said Sandie, "according to the same judgment. I am not rich, Dolly. By and by I will tell you all I have. But it is enough for us to live upon comfortably."

Nobody had ever seen Dolly so shy and blushing and timid as she was now, walking down the bank by Mr. Shubrick's side. It was a bit of the same lovely manifestation which he had been enjoying for a day or two with a little alloy. It was without alloy that he enjoyed it now.



CHAPTER XXXV.

WAYS AND MEANS.

As they entered the house, Dolly went downstairs and Mr. Shubrick up; she trembling and in a maze, he with a glad, free step, and a particularly bright face. Mrs. Copley was with her husband, as Dolly had opined.

"Here's one of them," cried Mr. Copley as Sandie entered. "Where have you been all this while? If you think I'll do to be left alone yet, you're mistaken. Where have you been?"

"In what I believe is the park of Brierley—over there under the oaks."

"And where is Dolly, Mr. Shubrick?" Dolly's mother asked.

"I have just brought her home. She is downstairs."

"I sent her to take care of her father," said Mrs. Copley in a dissatisfied tone.

"She informed me that Mr. Copley did not want her, and preferred me," said Mr. Shubrick.

"But you did not come?" said Mrs. Copley suspiciously.

He stood looking at her half a minute, with a slight smile upon his face, the frank, pleasant smile which belonged to him; then he turned, took a glass from the table and came to Mr. Copley's side to give him a draught which was due. Next he lifted his patient by the shoulders a little, to arrange the pillows behind him, and as he laid him back upon them he said quietly—"Will you give your daughter to me, Mr. Copley?"

Mr. Copley looked, or stared rather, grumly enough at the speaker.

"That means, you have got her already!"

"Not without your consent."

"I thought as much! Does Dolly want to marry you?"

"I do not know," said Sandie with a smile; "but I believe I may say that she will marry nobody else."

"Ay, there it is. I have other views for my daughter."

"And I thought you were engaged to Miss Thayer?" put in Mrs. Copley.

"True; I was; but that was a boyish mistake. We have all other views. Miss Thayer is to marry your friend, Mr. St. Leger."

"Christina!" cried Mrs. Copley. "Didn't I know Mrs. Thayer would do that, if she could! And now she has done it. And Christina has thrown you over?"

"Not at all," said Sandie, again with a smile. "And you have not to blame Mrs. Thayer, so far as I know. Miss Thayer and I are very good friends, but we were never intended to marry each other. We have found that out, and acted accordingly."

"And she has got him!" Mrs. Copley repeated. "I told Dolly she would like to do that. Put their two fortunes together, and they will have enough," said poor Mrs. Copley. "That comes of our going to Sorrento!"

"Look here, young man," said Mr. Copley. "If I give you Dolly, as you say, after she has given herself,—the witch!—what are you and she going to live on?"

"We have something to live on," said the young man with quiet independence.

"Not much, I'll be sworn!"

"Not perhaps what you would call much. A lieutenant in the navy is not likely to have more than a very moderate fortune."

"Fortune! What do you call a fortune?"

"Enough to live on."

"Are you ever going to be a captain?"

"I cannot say. But there is some prospect of it."

"Things might be worse, then," grumbled Mr. Copley. "Anyhow, you have tied my tongue, my fine fellow. I can't say a word against you. But look here;—if you don't want a wife that will rule you, I advise you not to marry my Dolly. She's a witch for having her own way. 'My Dolly'!" Mr. Copley half groaned. "I suppose now she's your Dolly. I don't want to give her to any man, that's the truth."

"And I thought all this nursing had been so disinterested!" said Mrs. Copley dolefully.

Sandie's answer to this was conclusive, of the subject and the conversation both. He went up to Mrs. Copley, took her hand, and bent down and kissed her. Just at that moment they were called to supper; and Mrs. Copley, completely conquered, went down with all her reproaches smothered in the bud. Yet I confess her face showed a conflict of feelings as she entered the kitchen. It was cloudy with disappointment, and at the same time her eyes were wet with tears of some sweeter feeling. Dolly, standing behind the supper-table, looked from the one to the other as the two came in.

"It is all settled, Dolly," said Mr. Shubrick.

And I think he would have taken his betrothal kiss, then and there, had not Dolly's glance been so shy and shrinking that she flashed at him. She was standing quietly and upright; there was no awkwardness in her demeanour; it was the look of her eyes that laid bans upon Sandie. He restrained himself; paid her no particular attention during supper; talked a great deal, but on entirely indifferent subjects; and if he played the lover to anybody, certainly it was to Mrs. Copley.

"He is a good young man, I believe," said Mrs. Copley, making so much of an admission as she and Dolly went upstairs.

"O mother," said Dolly, half laughing and half vexed, "you say that just because he has been entertaining you!"

"Well," returned Mrs. Copley. "I like to be entertained. Don't you find him entertaining?"

Mr. Shubrick kept up the same tactics for several days; behaving himself in the house very much as he had done ever since he had come to it. And out of the house, though he and Dolly took long walks and held long talks together; he was very cool and undemonstrative. He would let her get accustomed to him. And certainly in these conversations he was entertaining. Walking, or sitting on the bank under some old beech or oak tree, he had endless things to tell Dolly; things to which she listened as eagerly as ever Desdemona did to Othello; stories out of which, avoid personalities as he would, she could not but gain, step by step, new knowledge of the story-teller. And hour by hour Dolly's respect for him and appreciation of him grew. Little by little she found how thorough his education was, and how fine his accomplishments. Especially as a draughtsman. Easily and often, in telling her of some place or of some naval engagement, Sandie would illustrate for her with any drawing materials that came to hand; making spirited and masterly sketches with a few strokes of his hand, it might be on paper, or on a bit of bark, or on the ground even.

"Ah," said Dolly one day, watching him, "I cannot do that! I can do something, but I cannot do that."

"What can you do?" inquired Sandie.

"I can copy. I can take down the lines of a face, or of a bridge, or a house, when I see it before me; but I cannot put things on paper out of my thoughts. Do you remember how you did this sort of thing for me the very first time I saw you?—in the gun deck of the 'Achilles'?"

He smiled, finishing the sketch he was about.

"I remember. I remember what pleasure it gave me, too. At that time I had a little sister, just your age, of whom I was exceedingly fond."

"At that time—you had?" Dolly repeated.

"Yes," he said soberly; "I have not anybody now, of near kin to me."

Dolly's hand with mute sympathy stole into his. It was the first action of approach to him that she had made, unless that coming to him in the park three or four days before might be reckoned in the bargain. He tossed his drawing into her lap and warmly clasped the hand.

"It is time you began to talk to me, Dolly," he said. "I have talked a great deal, but you have said next to nothing. You must have a great many questions to ask me."

"I don't know," said Dolly.

"Why, you know nothing about me," he said with a laughing look of his eyes. "You had better begin. You may ask me anything."

"But knowing a person and knowing about him, are very different things."

"Very. And if you have the one sort of knowledge, it seems to me you must want to have the other. Unless, where both are alike uninteresting; which I cannot suppose is my case."

"No," said Dolly, laughing a little, "but I suppose you will tell me things by degrees, without my asking."

"What makes you suppose that?"

"It would be natural, wouldn't it?"

"Would it be natural, without your showing any interest?"

"Ah, but now you are supposing. Perhaps I should show interest."

Sandie laughed now heartily.

"I will try you," said he. "I will begin and tell you something without questions asked. Dolly, I have a house."

"Have you?"

"You do not care to hear about it?"

"I am glad that you have a house," said Dolly demurely. Sandie was lying on the turfy bank, in a convenient position for looking up into her eyes; and she found it not precisely an easy position for her.

"You do not take it as a matter of personal concern?"

"It is a house a long way off," said Dolly. "Just now we are here.''

"How much longer do you expect to be here?"

"That I do not know at all. Mother and I have tried and tried to get father to go home again,—and we cannot move him."

"I must try," said Mr. Shubrick.

"Oh, if you could!" said Dolly, clasping her hands unconsciously—"I don't know what I would give. He seems to mind you more than anybody."

"What keeps him here? Business?"

"I suppose it is partly business," said Dolly slowly, not knowing quite how to answer. And then darted into her heart with a pang of doubt and pain, the question: was not Mr. Shubrick entitled to know what kept her father in England, and the whole miserable truth of it? She had been so occupied and so happy these last days, she had never fairly faced the question before. It almost caught her breath away.

"Dolly, when we all go back to America, the house I speak of will not be 'far off.'"

"No," said Dolly faintly.

"Look here," said he, taking one of her hands. "It is a house I hope you will like. I like it, though it has no pretension whatever. It is an old house; and the ground belonging to it has been in the possession of my family for a hundred years; the house itself is not quite so old. But the trees about it are. The old house stands shut up and empty. I told you, I have no one very near of kin left to me; so even when I am at home I do not go there. I have never lived there since my mother left it."

Dolly was silent.

"Now, how soon do you think I may have the house opened and put in order for living in?"

There came up a lovely rose colour in the cheeks he was looking at; however Dolly answered with praiseworthy steadiness——

"That is a matter for you to consider."

"Is it?"

"Certainly."

"But you know it would be no use to open it, until somebody is ready to live there."

"No," said Dolly. "Of course—I suppose not."

"So you see, after all, I have to come to you with questions, seeing you will ask me none."

"Oh," said Dolly, "I will ask you questions, if you will let me. I would rather ask than answer."

"Very well," said he, laughing. "I give place to you. Ask what you like."

Then followed silence. The young officer lay easily on the bank at her feet, holding Dolly's hand; sometimes bringing his eyes to bear upon her face, sometimes letting them rove elsewhere; amused, but waiting.

"I shall have to begin again," said he.

"No, don't," said Dolly. "Mr. Shubrick, where is your house?"

"About fifty miles from Boston, in one of the prettiest New England villages on the coast."

"And how much ground is there round it?"

"About a hundred acres."

"Doesn't it spoil a house to be shut up so?"

"It is not good for it. But there is nobody belonging to me that I would like to see in it; and I could never rent the old place. I am very fond of it, Dolly. It is full of associations to me."

It swept through Dolly, how she would like to put it in order and keep it open for him; and again she was silent, till admonished by a laughing, "Go on."

But Dolly did not know what further to say, and was still silent.

"There is one question you have not asked me," Mr. Shubrick said, "which would be a very pertinent one just now. You have never asked me how long I was going to stay in England."

"No," said Dolly, starting. "How soon must you—how long can you stay?"

"My leave expires in two weeks."

"Two weeks! And can you not get it extended?"

"I don't know. Perhaps, for a little. But, Dolly, there is a prospect of the 'Red Chief' being ordered home; and there is a further possibility that I may have to take her home; for Captain Busby is very much out of health and wants to stay the winter over in Naples."

"You may have to take her home. Will that give you the ship, do you mean?"

"No," said he, smiling; "ships are not had at such an easy rate as that. But, Dolly, you perceive that there are several questions we must ask and answer; and the sooner the better."

"Then," said Dolly a little hurriedly,—she was afraid of the questions that might be coming,—"if you go away in two or three weeks, when shall I see you again?"

There was more of an admission made in these words than Dolly herself knew; and it was made with a tender, shy grace of tone and manner which touched the young officer with more than one feeling. He bent down to kiss Dolly's hand before he said anything.

"That is one of the questions," he said. "Let me tell you what I have thought about it. The 'Red Chief' has been a long time out; she needs overhauling. She will probably be sent home soon, and I am like to be in charge of her. I may expect to get a long furlough when I go home; and—I want to spend every minute of it with you. I do not want to lose a day, Dolly. Do you understand? I want you to be all ready for me, so that we can be married the very day I get to you."

"You mean, in America?" said Dolly, with a great flush.

"I mean, in America, of course. I want to take you straight away from your old home to your new one. I will have the house put in readiness"——

"When do you think you will be there?" Dolly broke in.

"By Christmas, perhaps."

"But I am here," said Dolly.

"So am I here, just at present," said he, smiling. "But you can go over in one ship while I am going over in another, and be there as soon as I, or before."

"I don't know," said Dolly. "I can't tell about father. I don't know when he will be persuaded to leave England."

She looked doubtful and troubled now. Possible difficulties and hindrances began to loom up before her, never looked at until then. What if her father would not go? What if he persisted in staying by the companions who were his comrades in temptation? Could she go away and leave him to them? and leave her mother to him? Here offered itself another sort of self-sacrifice, to which nothing could be objected except its ruinous effect upon her own future. Nay, not her own future alone; but what of that? "Fais que dois advienne que pourra." It all swept through Dolly's head with the speed, and something of the gloom, of a whirlwind.

"I don't know anything about his movements," she repeated anxiously. "Only, mother and I cannot get him away."

"In that case, I will come to England for you."

"Oh no!" said Dolly, shaking her head; "that would not do. I could not leave him and mother here."

"Why not?"

Dolly was silent. She could not tell him why not.

"Would it be more difficult here, than to leave them in America?" Mr. Shubrick asked, the smile upon his lips checked by the very troubled expression of Dolly's face.

"It would not be 'difficult' here; it would be impossible."

"May I ask, why more impossible, or difficult, than in America?"

Dolly was silent. What could she say?

"Suppose Mr. Copley should prefer to stay in England permanently?"

"Yes," said Dolly in a sort of whisper.

"What then?"

"I do not know," she answered faintly.

"In America it would be different?"

"Yes."

"Do you know, my little Dolly, you are speaking what it is very difficult for me to understand?"

"Of course," said Dolly. "You cannot understand it."

"Are you not going to give me the grace of an explanation?"

"I cannot."

"Then I shall go to Mr. Copley for it."

"Oh no!" said Dolly, starting, and laying both her hands upon one of the young officer's, as if in pleading or in hindering. "Oh no, Mr. Shubrick! Please, please, do not speak to mother or father about this! Please say nothing about it!"

He kissed and clasped the hands, making, however, no promise. For a moment he paused, seeing that Dolly was very deeply disturbed.

"Do you think father and mother both could not be tempted to go home for your sake?" he then asked.

"Oh, mother, yes; but father—I don't know about father."

"I shall try my powers of persuasion," said Mr. Shubrick lightly.

Dolly made no answer and was evidently in so much troubled confusion of thought that she was not ready, even if he were, to take up again the consideration of plans and prospects, or to enter into any other more indifferent subject of conversation. After a trial or two, seeing this, Mr. Shubrick proposed to get a book and read to her; which he had once or twice done to their great mutual pleasure. And as Dolly eagerly welcomed the proposal, he left her there on the bank and went down to the cottage, which was not very far off, to fetch the book. As soon as he was out of sight, Dolly laid her face in her hands.

It was all rushing upon her now, what she had scarce looked at before in the pre-occupation and happiness of the last days. It was a confusion of difficult questions. Would her father leave the companions and habits to which he had grown so fast, and go back to America for her sake—that is, for the sake of seeing her promptly married? Dolly doubted it much. It was quite possible that her father would regard that consideration as the reverse of an inducement. It was quite possible that no unselfish inducement would have any power at all with him. Then he would stay in England. And so long as he was in England, in the clutches of the temptation that had got so much power, Dolly could not leave him; and if she could leave him, it would be impossible to forsake her mother, whose only stay and comfort on earth she was. In that case, what was she to say to Mr. Shubrick? How could he understand, that for Dolly to leave father and mother was any way different or more difficult than Christina's or any other girl's doing the same thing? He could not understand, unless she told him all; and how was it possible for her to do that? How could she tell her lover her father's shame? And if she simply refused to marry him and refused to give any reason, what was he to think then? Shame and fear and longing took such possession of Dolly that she was thrown into great perturbation. She left her seat on the bank and walked up and down under the great trees. A good burst of tears was near, but she would not give way to that; Sandie would see it. He would be back presently. And he would be putting his question again; and whatever in the world should she say to him? For the hundredth time the bitter apostrophe to her father rose in Dolly's heart. How could he have let her be ashamed of him? And then another thought darted into her head. Had not Mr. Shubrick a right to know all about it? Dolly was almost distracted with her confusion of difficulties.

She would not cry, which as she told herself would help nothing. She stood by a great oak branch which, leaving the parent trunk a few feet higher up, swept in lordly fashion, in a delicious curve, down towards the turf, with again a spring upward at its extremity. Dolly stood where it came lowest, and had rested her two arms upon it, looking out vaguely into the green wilderness beyond. She thought she was safe; that was not the side towards the cottage, from which quarter Mr. Shubrick would come; she would hear his steps in time before she turned round. But Mr. Shubrick had seen her standing there, and innocently made a little bend from the straight path so as to come up on one side and catch a stolen view of her sweet face. Coming so, he saw much more than he expected, and much more than Dolly would have let him see. The next moment he had taken the girl in his arms.

Dolly started and would have freed herself, but she found she could not do it without making more effort than she was willing to use. She stood still, fluttering, trembling, and at the same time not a little abashed.

"What is troubling you, Dolly?"

Dolly dared not look and could not speak. Silence made an admission, she knew; nevertheless, she could find no words to say.

"Don't you love me well enough to tell me?"

"Oh, it isn't that," cried Dolly; "it's because"——

Here Dolly's revelations came to an end, and yet she had revealed a good deal. A dark glow came into the young officer's eyes. Truly, she had before never told him so much as that she loved him. But his next words were spoken in the same tone with the foregoing. It was very affectionate, and withal there was a certain accent of authority in it. I think it awed Dolly a little. She had known really very little of authority, as exercised towards herself. This was something very unlike her father's careless acquiescence, or his careless opposition; very unlike the careless way in which he would sometimes throw his arm round her, affectionate though that was. The affection here was different, Dolly felt with an odd sort of astonishment; and the care, and the asserted right of ownership. It gave the girl a thrill of joy; at the same time it had upon her a kind of subduing effect. So came his next question, gently as it was put, and it was put very gently.

"Do you not think I have a right to know?"

"Perhaps," she stammered. "Oh, I don't know but you ought to know,—but how can I tell you! Oh, I don't know how I can tell you!"

Dolly trembled in her doubt and distress; she fought down tears. Both hands went up to cover her face.

"Is it a trouble in which I can help?"

"I don't know."

"If I am to help, you must tell me something more, Dolly."

"Yes, but I cannot. Oh, if you knew, you would know that I cannot. I think perhaps you ought to know,—but I cannot tell you! I don't see how I can tell you!"

"Then do not try to tell me, until we are married," said he soothingly. "It will be easier then."

"But I think you ought to know before," said Dolly, and he felt how she trembled in his arms. "If you don't know, you will not be able to understand"——

"What?" for Dolly paused.

"What I do. You will not understand it."

"What are you going to do?" said Mr. Shubrick, smiling; she knew he was smiling. "You are going home to be ready to meet me; and the day I come, we are going to be married. Then you can tell me what you like. Hey?"

"But you don't know!" cried Dolly. "I can't tell when we shall go home. I don't know whether father will quit England for all I can say. I don't know whether he will ever quit it!"

"Then, as I remarked before, I will have the honour to come to England and fetch you."

"Ah, but I could not go then."

"Why not?"

"I could not leave them alone here."

"Why not here as well as in America?"

"My father needs me here," said Dolly in a low voice and with tears,—what sharp tears of bitterness!—coming into her eyes.

"Needs you! Do not I need you?" said Mr. Shubrick.

"No," said Dolly. "I am so glad you don't!" And her brown eyes gave one flash of undoubted, albeit inexplicable, pride and rejoicing into his face.

"How do you dare say that, Dolly?" he asked in growing curiosity and mystification.

"You can stand alone," she said, her voice again drooping. Mr. Shubrick was silent a moment, considering what this might mean. They had not altered their relative positions during this little dialogue. Dolly's face was again covered by her hands.

"I don't know if I can stand alone," said Sandie at last slowly; "but I am not going to try."

"Perhaps you must," said Dolly sadly, lifting her face again. "If I can get father to go home, I will; maybe you can do it if I cannot. But I am not sure that anybody can do it. Mr. Shubrick, he did not use to be like this; he was everything different; he was what you would have liked; but now he has got in with some people here in whose company he—oh, how can I tell you!" cried Dolly, bursting into tears; but then she fought them back and struggled for voice and went on with sad bravery. "I have told you so much, I must tell you the whole. He is not just master of himself; temptation takes hold of him and he cannot resist it. They lead him to play and—betting—and he loses money,—and then comes wine." Dolly's voice fell. "I have been trying and trying to get him back; sometimes I almost thought I had done it; but the temptation gets hold of him again, and then everything goes. And so, I cannot be sure," Dolly went on, as Mr. Shubrick remained silent, "what he will do about going home. Once he would have done it for me; but I do not know what he will do now. I cannot tell. And if there is a hope for him, it is in me. I have not been able to do much, yet; but if I cannot, no one can. Unless you, perhaps; but you cannot be with him. And you see, Mr. Shubrick, that even if I can be of no use to him, I could not leave mother all alone. I could not. I am glad you know it all now; but"——

Dolly could say nothing more. In sorrow and shame and agitation of spirits, she broke down and sobbed.

Her lover was very still; but though he spoke not a word, Dolly was feeling all the while the new guardianship she had come into; what strong love and what resolute care it was; feeling it the more because Mr. Shubrick was so quiet about it. It was new to Dolly; it was very delicious; ah, and what if she were but learning that now, to do without it for ever after! Her tears had more sources than one; nevertheless, as soon as she could manage it, Dolly mastered her feelings and checked down the expression of them; lifted her head and wiped her eyes, as if she had done now with tears for the term of her natural life. Even forced a smile, as she said—

"Please, Mr. Shubrick, let me go,—you must be tired of me."

Which Dolly, to be sure, had no reason to think, and had still less reason a minute after; being obliged to learn, somewhat to her astonishment, that there was also a difference in kisses as well as in some other things. Dolly was exceedingly filled with confusion.

"I—didn't—give you leave!" she managed to say, abashed as she was.

"No," said Sandie, laughing. "And yet I think you did, Dolly. I am glad to see your dimples again! Come here and sit down. I think I see the way out of our difficulties."

"You have been quick in finding it," said Dolly, as he placed her on the bank.

"Habit," said Sandie. "Sailors must see their way and make their decisions quickly, if at all. At least, that is oftentimes the case. This is one of the cases."

"Can you depend on decisions formed so suddenly?"—Dolly was driven by some unaccountable instinct of shyness to lead off from the subject in hand, nearly as it concerned her. And besides, she was too flushed and abashed to deal coolly with any subject.

"Must depend on them," said Sandie, laughing a little at her pretty confusion. "As I told you, there is often no other to be had. And a sailor cannot afford to change his course; he must see to it that he is right at first. Vacillation would be almost worse than anything."

"At that rate, sailors must get a very downright way with them."

"Perhaps. Are you afraid of it?"

"No," said Dolly demurely. "Are you a good sailor?"

Mr. Shubrick laughed out "Do you doubt it?"

"No, not at all," said Dolly, laughing a little herself. "Only you can do so many things—drawing, and speaking so many languages,—I wanted to know if you were good at that too."

"That is one of the necessities of my position, Dolly. A man who cannot sail a ship had better not try to command her."

"I wish you would tell me one thing," said Dolly wistfully.

"I will tell you anything."

"I wish you would tell me how you got your promotion. When I saw you first, you were a midshipman on board the 'Achilles.' Christina told me you had distinguished yourself in the war. How was it?"

Mr. Shubrick gave her a glance of surprise at first, at this very irrelevant propounding of questions; then a gleam came out of his blue eyes, which were not in the least like Mr. St. Leger's blue eyes; but he answered quite gravely.

"You have a right to know, if anybody in the world has; and yet I cannot tell you, Dolly. I did nothing more than hundreds of others; nothing but my duty. Only it happens, that if a man is always doing his duty, now and then there comes a time that draws attention to him, and brings what he does into prominence; and he gets advancement perhaps; but it does not follow that he has done any more than hundreds of others would have done."

"Are there so many men that are 'always doing their duty'?"

"I hope so. I believe so. In naval affairs."

"You have not told me what was the occasion that brought your doings into prominence?"

He glanced at her with a flash in his eyes again.

"Is that pressing just now?"

"Isn't now a good time?" said Dolly, smiling.

"No, for my head is full of something else. I can't tell you how I came to be promoted first. After I was raised to a lieutenancy, I got special credit for disciplining the crew."

"Disciplining?" said Dolly.

"Exercising them in gunnery practice."

"Oh!—I remember how you told me about that in the gun deck of the 'Achilles.'"

"This was on board another ship. Her guns were well served upon an occasion that followed, and honourable mention was made of my services as having led to that result. Now shall I go on?"

"If you have any more to tell."

"I am going no further on that tack. You must come about."

"I suppose," said Dolly quaintly, "I must if you must."

"We were getting too far to leeward. We must come up into the wind a little more, Dolly, and face our difficulties. I think I have found the way out of them. As I understand you, it is quite a matter of uncertainty when, or if ever, Mr. Copley can be induced to leave England."

"Quite uncertain. Even if he promised to-day that he would go next week, I could not be sure but he would change his mind before the day came."

"And so long as he and your mother are here, they need you. Do you see, Dolly, what prospect that opens to us?"

"Yes."

"The only thing to do, is to give me a right to speak in the matter."

"You have a right to speak," said Dolly. "Only"——

"I have no right to speak with authority. You must give me the authority."

"How?" said Dolly shyly.

"There is but one way. Don't you see, if I have the right to say where you shall be, the rest all follows?"

"How can you?" said Dolly.

He took her hand gently. "You must marry me before I go," said he. "It is the only way, Dolly. Don't be startled; you shall have all the time you want to get accustomed to the thought. I am not going to hurry you. The only difference is, that instead of being married the day I get to you in America, we will have the ceremony performed here, the day I leave you. Not till then, Dolly. But then, of course, you must go to America to meet me; and if I know anything of Mr. and Mrs. Copley, where you must be, they will choose to be also. I think I can get another week or two of leave, so that it will not seem so very sudden."

Dolly had flushed and paled a little. She sat looking on the ground in silence. Mr. Shubrick let her have a while to herself, and then asked her what she thought of his plan?

"I don't know," said Dolly faintly. "I mean," she added,—"perhaps it is the best way. I don't know but it is the only way. I don't believe mother will like it."

"We will talk her over," said the young officer joyfully. "You said she wishes to go home?"

"Oh yes. And I think she will come over to our side, when she knows the reasons."

Sandie bent down and reverently kissed the hand he held.

"Then"—— said Dolly, on whose cheek the flushes were coming and going,—but she did not finish her sentence.

"Then, what?"

"I was thinking to ask, how soon or when you expect your ship to go home?"

"I do not know certainly. Probably I shall be ordered home before Christmas; but it may not be till January."

Dolly was silent again.

"If our plan is carried out, you will go sooner, will you not?"

"Oh, immediately. As soon as possible."

"In that case you will be there before I shall. I told you, I have nobody very nearly belonging to me; but there is a cousin—a sort of cousin—living in the place; Mrs. Armitage; I will send her word to open the house and get it in some sort of order for us."

Both were silent again for a space, and I think not only one was happy. For Dolly knew the plan would work. But she was struggling besides with a thought which she wanted, and did not want, to speak. It must come out! or Dolly would not have been Dolly.

"Mr. Shubrick"—— she began.

"What?" said he eagerly; for Dolly's tone showed that there was a good deal behind it.

"Would you—I was thinking"——

"About what?"

"The house. Would you—trust me? I mean, of course, if we are there before you?"

A flood of colour rushed over Dolly's face.

"Trust you?" he said with a bright light in his eyes. "What am I going to do all my life? Trust you to put your own house in order? I cannot think of anything I should like quite so well. What a delightful thought, Dolly!"

"I should like it," said Dolly shyly.

"Then, instead of writing to Mrs. Armitage to open the house, I will send her an order to deliver the key to Mrs. Shubrick."

He liked to watch how the colour flitted on her face, and the lines of brow and lip varied; how she fluttered like a caught bird, and yet a bird that did not want to fly away. Dolly was frank enough; there was nothing affected, or often even conscious, about this shy play; it was the purest nature in sweetest manifestation. Shyness was something Dolly had never been guilty of with anybody but Mr. Shubrick; it was an involuntary tribute she constantly paid to him.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THIS PICTURE AND THAT.

The plan worked, as Dolly had known from the first, that it would. Mrs. Copley came into it, and then Mr. Copley could not resist. It only grieved Mrs. Copley's heart that there should be, as she said, no wedding. "Might as well be married in a barn!" she said.

The barn-like effect was a little taken off by Lord and Lady Brierley's presence at the ceremony, which to be sure was performed in no barn, but the pretty village church; and by the breakfast given to Dolly thereafter at the great house. This was not what Dolly or Mr. Shubrick had desired. It came about on this wise.

Dolly went to pay a farewell visit of thanks to Lady Brierley and to her good friend the housekeeper. Sandie accompanied her. Now, Mr. Shubrick was one of those persons who make their way in all companies. Lady Brierley, talking to Dolly, eyed the while the figure of the young officer, his face, and his fine, quiet, frank manners; watched him talking with her husband, who happened to come in; and also caught with her practised eye a glance or two of Dolly's. Dolly, be it remarked, was not shy here; before her noble friends, she neither flushed nor trembled nor was nervous. But Lady Brierley saw how things were.

"So," said her ladyship at last, when Dolly was about taking leave,—"you have not told me, but I know it,—you are going home to get married!"

"That would seem to be the natural order of things," said Sandie, as Dolly was not immediately ready with her answer; "but we are going to reverse the terms. We are purposing to be married first and then go home."

The lady looked at him with a curious mixture of expressions; it was too early in the century then for an officer of the American navy to be altogether a pleasant sight to the eyes of an Englishwoman; at the same time, she could not wholly withhold her liking from this young officer's fine looks and manly bearing. She turned to Dolly again.

"I hope you are going to ask me to your wedding," she said. "When is it to be, Dolly?"

"My mother thinks it does not deserve to be called a wedding," said Dolly, dimpling and growing rosy. "I should not have ventured to ask your ladyship. But if you are so kind—it is to be on the morning of the 10th—very early in the morning, for Mr. Shubrick has to set off that day to rejoin his ship."

"I'll get up by daybreak," said her ladyship, arching her brows, "if it is necessary. And you will come here from the church and have breakfast with me, will you? It would be a great pleasure to me."

So it had been arranged; and, as I said, Mrs. Copley had been a good deal comforted by the means. Lady Brierley's breakfast was beautiful; she had caused her rooms to be dressed with flowers in Dolly's honour; the company was small, but the more harmonious; and the presents given to Dolly were very handsome.

And now there is nothing more to do, but to give two pictures; and even for them there is hardly room.

The scene of the first, is a house in Harley Street, London. It is an excellent house, and just new furnished and put in cap-a-pie order from top to bottom. In the drawing-room a group of people taking a general survey. One of them a very handsome young man, in unexceptionable style, waiting upon two ladies; a beauty, and the beauty's mother. Things in the house meet approval.

"I think it is perfect," said Mrs. Thayer. "Just perfect. The man has done his work very well." She was referring to the upholsterer, and at the moment looking at the window curtains.

"Isn't that a lovely tint of French grey?" said Christina, "and the blue fringe is the right thing for it. I think the folds are a little too full—but it is a good fault. It is all right, I believe. I do like a drawing-room with no fault in it, no eye-sore."

"There could hardly be any fault in the work of Hans and Piccalilly," remarked St. Leger.

"Oh, I don't know, Lawrence," said the young lady. "Didn't they do the Fortescues' house? and the drawing-room is in white and gold; very pretty in itself, but just think how it will set off all those florid people. A bunch of peonies on a white ground!"

Lawrence laughed. "You can bear anything," he said. "But blue suits you."

"It's just perfect," Mrs. Thayer repeated. "I see nothing to find fault with. Yes, Christina can bear anything and wear anything. It saves a great deal of trouble. When I was a girl I had a different complexion. I wasn't a peony, but I was a rose—not a white rose; and anything shading on red I could not wear; not purple, nor claret, nor even ashes of roses. It was a regular perplexity, to get variety enough with the small number of shades at my disposal; for orange did not become me, either. Well, I can wear anything now, too," she added with a half laugh. "And it is nothing to anybody."

"Mamma, you know better than that," said Christina.

"Now," said Lawrence, "the question is, when shall we take possession? The house is all ready for us."

"There is no use in taking possession till we are ready to keep it; and it would be dull to stay in town all winter, wouldn't it?" said Christina. "Whatever should we do?"

"Very dull," said Mrs. Thayer. "It is a long while yet before the season begins. Better be anywhere else."

"I was thinking of Brighton," said Christina. "I think I should like that."

"After the Peacocks," said Lawrence. "We are due there, you know, for a visit."

"Oh, after the Peacocks, of course. But then,—do you think, Lawrence, we could do anything better than go to Brighton? Till the season opens?"

Brighton quite met Mr. St. Leger's views of what was desirable.

It was a month or two later, as it happened, that another house was undergoing inspection, a house at a very great distance from Harley Street, geographically and otherwise; but let the reader judge. This was a country house in a fair New England village; where there was land enough for everybody, and everybody had land, and in consequence the habitations of men were individually, as the habitations of men should be, surrounded with grass and trees and fields; the very external arrangements of the place giving thereby a type of the free and independent life and wide space for mental and characteristic development enjoyed by the inhabitants. The particular house in question was not outwardly remarkable above many others; it stood in a fair level piece of ground, shaded and surrounded with beautiful old American elms. The inspectors of the same were two ladies.

Dolly had come to the village a week or two before. Mr. Copley was not just then in condition to be left alone; so as her mother could not be with her, she had summoned her dear Aunt Hal, from Philadelphia; and Mr. Eberstein would not be left behind. All three they had come to this place, found quarters at the inn, and since then Dolly and Mrs. Eberstein had been very busy getting the house cleaned and put in order. The outside, as I said, gave promise of nothing remarkable; Dolly had been the more surprised and pleased to find the interior extremely pleasant and not commonplace. Rooms were large and airy; picturesquely arranged; and furnished, at least in part, in a style for which she had not been at all prepared. The house had been for a long stretch of years in the possession of a family, not wealthy, but well to do, and cultivated; and furthermore, several of the members of it at different times had been seafaring; and, as happens in such cases, there had been brought home from foreign parts a small multitude of objects of art or convenience which bore witness to distant industries and fashions. India mats of fine quality were on some of the floors; India hangings at some of the windows; beautiful china was found to be in quantity, both of useful and ornamental kinds. Little lacquered tables; others of curious inlaid work; bamboo chairs; Chinese screens and fans; and I know not what all besides. Dolly and Mrs. Eberstein reviewed these articles with great interest and admiration; they gave the house, simple as it was, an air of elegance which its exterior quite forbade one to look for. At the same time, some other necessary things were wanting, or worn. The carpet in what Dolly called the drawing-room was one of these instances. It was very much the worse for wear. Dolly and her aunt went carefully over everything; adjusting, supplying, arranging, here and there; Dolly getting a number of small presents by the way, and a few that were not small. At last Mr. Eberstein sent in a fine carpet for the drawing-room; and Dolly would not have it put down.

"Not till Mr. Shubrick comes," she said.

"Why not, my dear? this is threadbare," her aunt pleaded.

"Aunt Hal, I should not like to give the room a strange look. He may have associations with this old carpet, for anything I know."

"Men do not have 'associations' with things," said Mrs. Eberstein.

"Some men do, and perhaps he is one of them. At any rate, I want the house to look like home to him when he comes. I'll put down the carpet afterwards, if he likes it."

"I am afraid you are going to spoil him, Dolly," said Mrs. Eberstein, shaking her head. "I hope he is worthy of it all. But don't spoil him!"

"He is much more likely to spoil me, Aunt Hal."

"Spoil you!" exclaimed her aunt indignantly. "What do you know about it? O Dolly, Dolly! I hope you have got the right man!"

At which, however, Dolly showed all her dimples, and laughed so comically that Mrs. Eberstein, right or wrong, was obliged to laugh with her.

Mr. Copley had once said a true thing about his daughter; that if she married Mr. St. Leger she would be devoted to him. "If"—yes, so she would. And being now married to somebody else, Dolly was a very incarnation of loyalty to her husband. Alas, many another woman has trusted so, on less grounds, and made shipwreck; but Dolly's faith was well founded, and there was no shipwreck in store for her.

So the day came when all was in readiness, and the two ladies took a satisfied review of their work. It was the day when Mr. Shubrick was looked for home. The "Red Chief" had arrived in port; and Sandie had written that by the evening of this day he hoped to be at home. Everything was in order; fires were lighted; a servant installed below stairs; supper prepared; nothing left to be done anywhere. Dolly had seen to the supper carefully herself; indeed, for a day or two there had been some very thoughtful cooking and baking going on; which Mrs. Eberstein had watched with great interest, some amusement, and ever so little a bit of jealousy.

"Is Mr. Shubrick a difficult man to please?" she demanded.

"How can I tell?" said Dolly. "I have only seen him in our house, not in his own. He did not scold there; but how do I know what he may do here?"

"Scold!" repeated Mrs. Eberstein. "Dolly, I believe it would rouse all the wickedness there is in me, if anybody should scold you!"

Dolly flushed rosily, and then she fairly laughed out.

"I will tell you a secret, Aunt Hal," she said. "I don't mean that in this matter, at least, he shall find any occasion."

So the supper was ready, and the table was set, and fires were bright. Mrs. Eberstein stayed with Dolly till the evening began to fall, and then went back to the inn; averring that she would not for the universe be found in Mr. Shubrick's house when he came. Dolly stood at the window and watched her aunt's dark figure moving down to the gate, and then still stood at the window watching. It was all snow stillness outside.

There was a faint moonlight, which glistened on the white ground and bare elm branches. A few inches of snow had fallen the day before; the sun had thawed the surface slightly, and then it had frozen in a glittering smooth crust. It was still outside as only leafless winter can be, when there are no wings to flutter, or streams to trickle, or chirrup of insects to break the calm. Not a footfall, not a sleigh bell; not another light in sight, but only the moon. Anybody in the road might have seen another light,—that which came from Dolly's windows. She had been hard to suit about her arrangements; she would not have candles lit, for she did not wish an illumination that might make the interior visible to a chance passer-by; and yet she would not have the shutters shut, for the master of the house coming home must read his welcome from afar in rays of greeting from the windows. So she made up the fires and left the curtains open; and ruddy firelight streamed out upon the snow. It was bright enough to have revealed Dolly herself, only that the house stood back some distance from the road. Dolly watched and listened a while; then crossed the hall to the room on the other side, from the windows of which a like glow shone out. The fire was in order; the table stood ready. Dolly went back again. It was so still outside, as if Sandie never would come. She listened with her heart beating hard and fast.

For an hour and a half, perhaps; and then she heard the tinkle of sleigh bells. They might be somebody else's. But they came nearer, and very near, and stopped; only Dolly heard a mixed jangle of the bells, as if the horse had thrown his head up and given a confused shake to them all. The next thing was the gate falling to, and a step crunching the crisp snow. Then the house door opened with no preliminary knock; and somebody was throwing off wraps in the hall.

Dolly had made a step or two forward, and stopped; and when Sandie appeared on the threshold, she was standing in the middle of the room, as pretty a picture of shy joy as a man need wish to see in his heart or his house. If Mrs. Eberstein could have been there and watched his greeting of her, the lady's doubts respecting his being "the right man" would perhaps have been solved.

But after the first hasty word or two, it was very silent.

"Dolly," Mr. Shubrick said at last. And there he stopped; nothing followed.

"What were you going to say?" Dolly whispered.

"So much, that I do not know how to begin. I cannot get hold of the end of anything. Are you not going to let me see your eyes? I do not know where I am, till I get a look into them."

He smiled a moment after; for, although shyly and fleetingly, the brown eyes were lifted for a brief glance to his. What a sweet, tender simpleness was in them, and yet what a womanly, thoughtful brow was above them; and, yes, Sandie read somewhat else that a man likes to read; a fealty of love to him that would never fail. It went to his heart. But he saw too that Dolly's colour had left her cheeks, though at first they were rosy enough; and in the lines of her face generally and the quiver of her lip he could see that the nervous tension was somewhat too much. He must lead off to commoner subjects.

"Who is here with you?"

"Nobody."

"You do not mean that you are alone here, Dolly?"

"No. Oh no. I mean, nobody in the house. Aunt Harry and Uncle Ned are at Baxter's. Aunt Harry only left me an hour or two ago, when it was time to expect you."

"It was very kind of her to leave you!" said Sandie frankly.

"We have been here a fortnight. When I found I could not have mother, I wrote to Aunt Hal; and she came."

"What was the matter with your mother?"

Dolly half unwound herself from the arms that held her, and turned her face away. She was trying to choke something down that threatened to stop her speech.

"Father"——

"What of him?" said Sandie with a grave change of tone.

"I am not sorry," said Dolly. "But, oh! to think that I should not be sorry!" She covered her face.

Sandie was silent, waiting and wondering. It could not be Mr. Copley's death that was in question; but what then could it be? He waited, to let Dolly take her own time. Neither did he have to wait long.

"You remember," she began, still with her face turned away,—"you remember what I told you one day in Brierley Park—about father?"

"Certainly I remember."

"You understood me?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then you knew that I was—very anxious"—Dolly caught her breath—"about what might come? Oh, it is not treason for me to talk to you about it—now!" cried Dolly.

"It is not treason for you to tell me anything," said Mr. Shubrick, drawing her again closer, though Dolly kept her face bent down out of his sight. "Treason and you have nothing in common. What is it?"

"I told you, I knew there was no safety," she said, making a quick motion of her hand over her eyes. "I hoped things would be better over here, away from those people that led him the wrong way; and they were better; it was like old times; still I knew there was no safety. And now—he is taken care of," she said with a tremble of her lip which spoke of strong pain, strongly kept down. "He went to see some new fine machinery in somebody's mill. Somehow, by some carelessness, his coat got caught in the machinery; and before the works could be stopped his leg was—fearfully broken." Dolly spoke with difficulty and making great effort to master her agitation. The arms that held her felt how she was quivering all over.

"When, Dolly? When did this happen?"

"Soon after we came home. It is six weeks ago now."

"How is your father now?"

"Doing very well; getting cured slowly. But he will never walk again without—support. Oh, do you see how I am so sorry and glad together? Isn't it dreadful, that I should be glad?"

She looked up now, for she would not distress Mr. Shubrick by giving way to the tears which would have been a relief to herself. She looked up with such a face! the eyes shining through tears, the mouth trembling with a smile; sunshine and rain all in one glitter. "And that is the way he has been taken care of!" she said.

Mr. Shubrick stooped his face gently to hers with a mute, caressing motion, leaving her time to get rid of those encumbering tears or to shed more of them; waiting till the tremor subsided a little. Soon Dolly spoke again.

"It has been such a weight on me—oh, such a weight! I could hardly bear it sometimes. And now—this is better."

"Yes," he said.

"You had to know of it. I was very sorry!"

"Sorry that I should know?"

"Oh yes, yes! Sorry and ashamed. Sorry for you, too." Dolly's trembling was excessive.

"Hush!" said Sandie softly. "What is yours is mine; sorrow and joy together. I think I had better go and take up my old office of nurse again."

"Oh," said Dolly, starting, and a glad tone coming into her voice, "would you? How he would like that!"

"It must have been a little hard for them both to have you come away just now. I think we will go and comfort them up, Dolly."

"You are very, very good!" said Dolly, with her eyes glistening, and speaking from hearty conviction.

"Whom are you talking to? I have not heard my name yet."

"I have not got accustomed to you yet, you know," Dolly said with a little nervous laugh. "Besides,—I never did."

"Never did what?"

"I never called you anything but—Mr. Shubrick."

"Christina did."

"Poor Christina!" said Dolly.

"Why?" said the other merrily. "She is the rich Mrs. St. Leger; why do you say 'Poor Christina'?"

"I am afraid I have come between her and happiness," Dolly said, blushing frankly.

"You have no occasion to say that," Sandie said, laughing. "She has got what she wanted. There was a terrible danger that she might have come between me and happiness. But for her—I am not at all sure that she would have been happy with me."

"I remember," said Dolly, "she told me one time, she knew she would not 'have her head' so much, if she were once married to you."

"She would not have approved my old house, either," said Sandie contentedly, letting Dolly go that he might put up the fire, which had tumbled down, after the fashion of wood fires.

"She might have liked it," Dolly answered.

"You do?"

"Oh, very much! Aunt Hal and I think it is charming. And it is full of lovely things."

"Wants a new carpet, I should say," said Sandie, eyeing the threadbare one under his feet, which Mrs. Eberstein had objected to.

"There!" said Dolly. "Aunt Hal said you would never know what was on the floor. I told her she was mistaken."

"What gave her such a poor opinion of my eyesight?"

"Oh, nothing, it was not of your eyesight, I don't know, unless she thinks that is the way with men in general. Uncle Ned had brought me a present of a beautiful new carpet for this room, and Aunt Harry wanted me to have it put down; but I wouldn't until I knew whether you would like it."

"Whether I would like it!" Sandie repeated, rather opening his eyes. "I should think the question was, whether you would like it. I like new carpets."

"I did not know but you might have some affection for this old one," said Dolly. "I did not want to change the look of the room before you came, so that it would not seem like home. Aunt Harry said I would spoil you."

"What did you answer to that?"

"I said it was more likely you would spoil me," said Dolly, dimpling up and flushing.

"Do you think I will?" said Sandie, taking her hand and drawing her up to him.

Dolly hesitated, flushed and dimpled more, and answered, however, a frank "No."

"Why?" was the quick next question.

"You ask too many things," said Dolly. "Don't you want something to eat?"

"No, not at all!—Yes."

"I thought so," said Dolly, laughing. "Come, then."

She put her hand in his and led him across the broad hall to the dining-room. And during the next hour Sandie might have recurred with reason to his late remark; that Christina had been near coming between him and happiness. The careless luxury of her way of entertaining him, was in strongest contrast to the sweet, thoughtful, delicate housewifery of his wife. It was a constant pleasure to watch her. Tea-making, in her hands, was a nice art; her fingers were deft to cut bread; and whenever the hands approached him, whether it were to give a cup of tea or to render some other ministry, it was with an indescribable shyness and carefulness at once, which was wholly bewitching. Sandie was hungry, no doubt; but his feast was mental that night, and exquisite.

Meanwhile, he talked. He gave Dolly details of his voyage home, which had been stormy; got from her a full account of the weeks since she had set foot on American ground; and finally informed her that his having a ship was certain, and in the near future.

"Poor Christina!" said Dolly.

"Hush!" said he, laughing and drawing her with him back into the other room; "you shall not say that again. Would you like to go to Washington? The probability is that you will have to go."

"Anywhere," said Dolly.

They stood silently before the fire for a few minutes; then Mr. Shubrick turned to her with a change of tone.

"Why did you think I would not spoil you?"

She was held fast, she could not run away; he was bending down to look in her face, she could not hide it. Dolly's breath came short. There was so much in the tone of his words that stirred her. Besides, the answer—what came at last was—

"Sandie, you know you wouldn't!"

"Reasons?"

"Oh!—reasons."

"Yes. I want to know the reasons, Dolly."

In her desperation Dolly looked up, one good glance of her brown eyes; then she hid her face. I think Sandie was satisfied, for he asked no more.

"Yes," he said presently. "I love you too well, and you love me too well. We will try to help each other up; not down. Dolly, I would not spoil you for the whole world! and I do not believe I could if I tried."

The lady from whom this story comes, remembers having seen Mrs. Shubrick when she was a beautiful old lady. Then and all her life she wore her cable watch-chain.



THE END.



Typographical errors silently corrected:

Chapter 1: if they don't know Him replaced by if they don't know him

Chapter 3: 'The sails are said replaced by The sails are said

Chapter 4: what strange shapes: replaced by what strange shapes;

Chapter 4: unschoolgirl-like; replaced by unschoolgirl-like,

Chapter 6: for calculation, replaced by for calculation;

Chapter 10: all her beauty she replaced by all her beauty, she

Chapter 10: pay my gardener. replaced by pay my gardener."

Chapter 11: old-fashioned flowers showed replaced by old-fashioned flowers, showed

Chapter 18: with it. I should replaced by with it, I should

Chapter 18: No" said Rupert replaced by No," said Rupert

Chapter 20: If Lawrence, had replaced by If Lawrence had

Chapter 22: there by interpreting replaced by there, by interpreting

Chapter 22: to him, Dolly replaced by to Him, Dolly

Chapter 23: in thee.—I am replaced by in thee.'—I am

Chapter 25: and he cometh. replaced by and he cometh.'

Chapter 25: "Though people do replaced by "though people do

Chapter 26: ways, of private replaced by ways of private

Chapter 28: hateth you." replaced by hateth you.'"

THE END