Cecilia, did you ever care for-for-Trant?" 'Never; did you imagine that? I never cared for anyone but you; I never shall again. And you, Cyril,' the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, 'do you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I remember all the hateful scenes I have passed through.'

'I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again,' says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any affection for Trant. 'And if every relation you ever had was as bad as bad could be I should adore all the same. I can't say any more.'

you

'You needn't,' returns she, laughing a little. 'Oh, Cyril, how sweet it is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any love offered me; at least,' correcting herself hastily, any I cared to accept!'

'But you had a lover?' asks he, earnestly.
'Yes, one.'

6

'Trant again?' letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under lip.

'Yes.'

'Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it.'

'No indeed, not in the way you mean. But in every other way more than I can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were otherwise. As a true friend, I love him.'

'How dare you use such word to anyone but me?' says Cyril, bending to smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my sweet? Let me kiss them away; poor eyes, surely they have wept enough in their time to permit of their only smiling in the future.'

When they have declared over and over again (in

different languages every time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other, Cecilia says:

'How late it grows, and you are in your evening dress, and without a hat. Have you dined?'

'Not yet; but I don't want any dinner.' (By this one remark, oh, reader! you may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) We generally dine at halfpast seven, but to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early and came down to see you.' 'At eight,' says Cecilia, alarmed; 'it is almost that

now.

You must go, or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want anyone belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me.'

'There is plenty of time; it can't be nearly eight yet, why it is only half-an-hour since I came.'

It is a quarter to eight,' says Cecilia, solemnly. 'Do go, and come again as early as you can to-morrow.' You will be glad to see me?'

"Yes, if you come very early.'

<

And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?'

'What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening'-discontentedly. Certainly "Time was made for slaves." Well,'-with a sigh-good-night, I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest.'

"Good-night, Cyril.'

What a cold farewell; I shan't go away at all if you don't say something kinder.'

Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his

neck:

Good-night, my--darling,' she whispers, tremuJously; and with the last lingering caress they part as though years were about to roll by before they can meet again.

CHAPTER XVII.

And, though she be but little, she is fierce.

Midsummer Night's Dream.

Bene. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.-Much Ado About Nothing.

It is a glorious evening towards the close of September. The heat is intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was still the very heart of summer.

Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains, her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book containing selections from the works of favourite poets in his hand. He is reading aloud such passages as please him, and serve to illustrate the passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable, that not only has he ceased to deny it to himself, but everyone in the house is fully aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. Sometimes, when the poem is an old favourite, he recites it, keeping his dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.

Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been wretched as a man can be who sees a rival wellreceived before his eyes day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender giances, although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, spending--how, he hardly knows, though perhaps she does-a good deal of time

in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation, if now he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that cruel bird (this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.

Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.

As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below Guy frowns, and winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upwards by the wind, falls upon his

ears.

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea,
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?'

The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much empressement soar upwards and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many impassioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.

'Read something livelier, Archie,' she says, regarding her growing chain with unlimited admiration. There is rather much honey about that.'

'If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you do like,' returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them over impatiently.

"Oh, my Luve's like a red, red rose," he begins, bravely, but Lilian instantly suppresses him.

Don't,' she says, that's worse. I always think what a horrid "luve" she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! Fancy

writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however, the other lines are rather pretty.'

'Oh my love's like a melody,

That's sweetly played in tune,'

reads Archie, and then stops.

'It is pretty,' he says, agreeably; but if you had heard that last word persistently called "chune," I think it would have taken the edge off your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he would call the word "chune," and it rather spoiled the effect. He's dead,' says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, but I think I see him now?

'In the pride of youth and beauty,

With a garland on his brow,'

quotes Lilian, mischievously.

"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the “late lamented Titiens sing her choicest song in "Il Trovatore "-you know it?-well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he instantly said he thought it was "a very pretty chune'!" Fancy Titiens singing a "chune"! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a year later and left me all his money.'

'More than you deserved,' says Lilian.

Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, and declare themselves completely used up.

'Let us have tea out here,' says Lilian gaily, 'and enjoy our summer to its end.' Springing to her feet, she turns towards the balcony, careless of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting