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Nflfitgione big fi-own. Are you going to be angry ' again-7 ‘ -I do hope," says Molly, anxiously, “ you are notipaturgllyill-tempered, because if so, on no account would I have anything to db with you,” ‘ “ I am.not,” replies he..compe11ed to laugh- ter‘by her pg‘rturbed face. “ Reassure your- self. I seldom forget myself in this way. And you 7“ z ..I‘v ‘ = U!“th see how you make that out,” says her compahion, in an injured tone. “ For Jtheulqgt‘LQge minutes you have ‘sat with your ham 9 m ymi’iz upffirguing about what you don’t und smug in the least, while I have been cmfi entio sly slaving ; and. before that THE IAITTBE'GRAVE ONT“ Ilth There’s a. spot on the hillside far away, Where, in summer, the grass grows green, Where, beneath a. rustling elm-tree shade, A ass-covered stone is seen.“ ’Ti quiet and unfrequented spot; A solitude lone and wild, Yetâ€"somebody‘s hopes are buried thereâ€" ’Tis the grave of a. little child. In whiten-ales I that mossy stone " Is hid neeth e shroud of snow; at around it, in Springtime, fresh and sweet The daisies and violets grow ; Ali‘d o'er it the summer breezes blow, With airagmnce soft and mild, And the autumn’s deed leaves thickly straw That grave of a. little child. And every year. there’se-red-breast comes, When the month of May is nigh, And builds her nest in this quiet spot, ’Mid tho_e1mâ€"tree’s br shes high ; While her'melody s‘weet y the hour she trills, As if by the scene beguiled. Pei‘hn. sâ€"yvho knows ? ’tis an angel comes To e grave of that little child. Yes, somebody’s hope lies buried there, Some'motner is weeping in vain, Figfithough years may come and years may go, ’ will never come back again. Yet, blessed are those who die in youth, The pure and the nndefiled ; Someroed to heaven, perchence, runs through The'gmve of a. little child. “ 0h ! Molly Bmwn, why leave me pining, , All lonely waiting here for you.”â€"Old Song “ I do not,” with surprise. “ What has put such an idea into your head? If I did, why-‘beengaged to you at any time? It is a great-deal more likely, when you come to know. me better, that you will throw me over.” “Don’t build your hopes on that," says Lustre“, grimly. with a. rather sad smile. “ :1 am not the sort of fellow likely to commit suicidé ; and to resign you would be to resign life.” “Well,” says Molly, “if I am ever to say anything'on the subject I may as well say it now; and I must confess I think you are be- having very foolishly. I may beâ€"I probably uniâ€"good to look at; but what is the use of that? You, who have seen so much of the World, have, of course, known people ten times prettier than I am, andâ€"perhapsâ€" fonder of you. And still you come all the way down ‘here to this stupid place to fall in love with me, a girl withoutapenny I I real- ly think,” winds up Molly, growing posi‘ tively melancholy over his lack of sense, “ it is the most absurd thing I ever heard in my life." -“ If Twas indifierent I would not argue,” says Molly. oflended. “ I would not trouble myself to utter a word of warning. You ough to be immegsely obliged to me, instead 0 éring and wrinkling up all your forehead f‘I wish I could argue with your admirable indiffggglibe,”r :3ng he, bijterly: _ V “ 0h, I'have a. fearful temper.” says Molly, with a charming smile ; “ that is why I want to make sure of yours. Because two tyrants iii one house would. ihfalllibly bring the roof abouttheir ears. Now; Mr. Luttrell, that I have made this confession, will you still tell me you are not frightened?” I g 5‘ Nothing frightens me,” whispers he, hold- ipg her to his heart and pressing his lips to her fair, cool cheek, “ since you are my own â€"‘-lmy sviqdaâ€"my beloved. But call me Ted- castle, won’t you ?” “ It is too long a name.” ‘f Then'alter it, and call meâ€"â€"” “may ‘3'I‘t11'ink I like that beat ; and per- hapfi I‘ fihall have it all to myself.” “ I am‘ afraid not,” laughing. ” All the fel- lgws ‘in the regiment christened me Teddy be- fore I had been in a. week.” r ‘ “DE they] 'Well, never mind; it only shows whifgood taste they had. The name juasuits you. you are so fair, and young, and handsome,” says Molly, petting his cheek w1th considerable condescension. “ Now, omm‘fimswm- win, in 150 1% diam our‘scoming iygu age not to make Love to 1| . . H _ ‘ a. » . , 11,19 ‘agam'fnot even .to men’uon the wordâ€"- untif a whole Week has passed: promise." ' "“ I could hot?” 3' ‘ “ You’m‘ust.” “ Well, then, ihe.” " - ' “NoLI forbid you to break it. I can en- dure a. little of it now and agam," says Molly, with intense seriousness, “ but to be made lqve tp always, every day, would kill me.” " Tlfeu‘the sat down mid talked-â€" ‘” »‘ offljelr riends mthome~ * * * * 95 And related the wondrous adventure." I écounmsmr or MILES STANDISH. ‘ "“Do’exert yourself,” says Molly. “ I never saw on; one so lazy. You don’t pick one to my ten.” '3 been cofiioientioilsly slaving ; (and. before that you ate two to every one you put in the basket.” W“ And I find it impossible to do anything with this umbrella,” says Luttrell, still un- émteful, eyeing with much distaste the an- cient article he holds aloft ; “ it is abominatny in the Way. I wouldn’t mind if you wanted it bfit you cannot Wltli that gigantic hat you swearing. .May I.p.ut it down?” ‘ ““ Certainly not, unless you wish me to have gsuilstroke. Do you ?” c: ‘5 Na, hutI'really' thinkâ€"~â€"” ” Don’t think,” says Molly; "it is too fa- tiguing ; and if you get used up now, I don’t see what Letitiakwill do fox; her jam.” “I-'héver11eard any one talk so much as you do, when once fairly starte( ," says Molly. " Here, ppeu your month, until I put in this strawberry; perhaps it willstop you.” MOLLY BAWN. WEfiHfiB‘fiiE‘zfiSké'firfi” 13% Luttrell, despairingly ; “ they wouldn’t if they had the picking of it; .md ’né’body ever eats it, do “1911‘ .u._ "1:4,? u; , . “ Yes, I do. I love it. Let that thought cheer you on to victory; Oh I here is another intone, such a monster. Open your mouth again, \wide, and you shall have it, because you really do begin to look weak.” 9;; They are sitting ‘on the strawberry bank, close together, with a. small square basket be- tween them, and the pretty red-and-white Trujt hanging from its dainty stalks all round them. A. ' g f Molly, in a huge hat that only partially bonceals her face and throws a shadow over her glorious eyes, is intent upon her task, while Luttrell, sitting opposite to her, holds over her head the very largest family umbrella ,ever built. It is evidently an old and es- teemed friend, that has worn itself out in the Massereenes’s service. and now shows day- light here and there through its covering where it should not. A troublesome scorch- ing rayoomes through one of these impromptu air-holes and alights persistently on his face ; at present it is on his nose, and makes that feature appear a good degree larger than Na- ture,th has been yery generous to it, ever intended. ' ‘ “ Is it good ?” asks Molly, apropos of the strawberry. “ There, you need not bite my finger. Will you have another? You really do look very badly. You don’t think you are goingitoifainttdro you :7” V It might strike .a keen observer that Mr. Luttrell‘doesn't like the umbrella; either it, or the wicked sunbeam, or the heat generally, is telling on him, slowly but surely; he has a depressed and melancholy air. “ Molly," taking no notice of her graceful badinage, “ why don’t you get your grand- father to invite you to Herst Royulfor the au- tumn ? Could you not manage it in some way? I wish it could be done." ” So 30 I,” returns she,frankly, “ but there is not the remotest chance of it. It would be quite aa'iikely' that the skies should fall. Why, By THE‘AUTHOR OF “PHYLLIS.” CHAPTER, V111 it will be a pie-crust prom- he does not even acknowledge me as a. mem- ber of the family.” “ Old brute 1” says Luttrell, from his heart. “ Well, it has always been rather a regret to meâ€"his neglect, I mean," says Molly, thoughtfully; “ and besides, though I know it is poor~spirited of me, I confess I have the greatest longing to see my grandfather.” “ To see your grandfather ?" ' “Exactly.” “ Do you mean to tell mef’ growing abso- lutely animated through his surprise, “ that you have never been face to face with him?” “ Never. I thought you knew that. Why, how amazed you look I Is there anything the matter with him 7 Is he without arms, or legs ? Or has he had his nose shot off in any cam- paign? If so, break it to me gently, and spare me the shock I might experience if ever I make my curtsey to him.’ “ It isn’t that,” says Tedcastle ; “ there’s nothing wrong with him beyond old age, and a beastly temper; but it seems so odd that, living all your life in the very next county to his, you should never have met.” “ It is not so odd, after all. when you come to think of it,” says Molly, “ considering he never goes anywhere, as I have heard, and that I lead quite as lively an existence. But is he not a. stern old thing, to keep up a quar- rel for so many years, especially as it wasn’t my fault, you know? I didn't insist on being born. Poor mother! I think. she was quite right to run away with papa, when she loved him.” “ Quite right,” enthusiastically. “ What made her crime so unpardonsble was the fact that she was engaged to another man at the time, some rich parti chosen by her father, whom she thought she liked well enough until she saw papa, and then she knew, and throw away everything for her love; and she did well,” says Molly, with more excitement than would be expected from her on a sentimental subject. “ Still, it was rather hard on the first man, don’t you think?” says Luttrell. There is rather less enthusiasm in his tone this time. “ One should go to the wall, you know,” argues Molly, calmly, “ and I for my part would not hesitate about it. Now, let us sup- pose I am engaged to you without caring very much about you, you know‘ and all that, and supposing then I saw another I liked betterâ€" why, then,I honestly confess I would nqt hold to my engagement with you an houy” Here that Wicked sunbeam, with”? deprav- ity unlocked for, falling straight thiough the chink of the umbrella into Mr. Luttré’ll’s eye, maddens him to such a degree that! he rises precipitately, shuts the cause of his misfor- tunes with a bang, and turns on Molly. _ “I won’t hold it up another insthnt,” he says ; “ you needn‘t think it. I wonder Mus- sereene wouldn’t keep a. decent umbrella in his hall.” “ What’s the matter with it ? I see nothing indecent about it; I think it a very charming umbrella,” says Molly, examining the article in question with a. critical eye. “ Well, at all events, this orchard is oppres- sive. If you don’t want to kill me, you will leave it. and come to the wood, where we may know What shade means l” “ Nonsense l” returns Molly, unmoved. “ It is delicious here, and I won’t stir. How can you talk in that Wild way about no shade, when you have this beautiful apple-tree right over your head ? Come and sit at this side ; perhaps,” with a smile, “ you will feel more comfortableâ€"next to me ?” Thus beguiled, he yields, and seats himself beside herâ€"very much beside herâ€"and re- conciles himself to his fate. "I wish you would remember," she says, presently, “ that you have nothing on your head; ' I would not be rash if I were you. Take my advice and open the umbrella again, or you will assuredly be having a sun- stroke.” This is one for him and two for herself; and â€"-need I say ?â€"-â€"the family friend is once more unfurled, and waves to and fro majestically in the soft wind. “ Now, don’t you feel better ‘2" asks Molly, placing her two fingers beneath his chin. and turning his still rather angry face towards her. ‘ “ I do," replies he ; and a smile creeping up into his eyes slays the chagrin that still lin- gers there, but half perdu. “ Andâ€"are you happy ?" “ Very.” “ Intenser happy ‘2” “ On, I’m all right I” says Miss Massereene, with much graciousness, but rather disheart- ening vivacity. “ And now begin, Teddy, and tell me all about Herst Royal and its inmates. First, is it a pretty place?” “ Yes,” replies he again, laughing, and slip- ping his arm round her waist. “ And you?” tendgrly.‘ so ?” “ It is a magnificent place. But for its atâ€" tractions, and his twenty thousand pounds a year, I don’t believe your grandfather would be known by any one ; he is such a regular old bear. Yet he is fond of society, and is never content until he has the house crammed with people, from garret to basement, to whom he makeshimself odiously disagreeable whenever occasion offers. I have an invitation there for September and October." “ Will you go?” “ I don't know. I have hardly made up my mind. I have been asked to the Careys, and the Brownes also; and I rather fancy the Brownes. They are the most affording people I ever met ; one always puts in such a good time at their place. But for one reason, I would go there.” “What reason ?" “ That Herst is so much nearer to Brook- lyn,” with a fond smile. “ And perhaps, if I came over once or twice, you would be glad to see me 7” “ Oh, would I not I” cries Molly, her fault- less face lighting up at his words. “ You may be sure of it. You won’t forget, will you ‘2 And you Will come early. so as to ‘speud the entire day here, and tell me all about the others who will be staying there. Do you know my cousin Marcia ?" “ Miss Amherst? Yes. She is very hand- some, but too statuesque to please me." “ Am I better-looking ‘2” “ Ten thousand times.” “ And Philip Shadwell; he is my cousin also. Do you know him ‘2” “'Very intimately. He is handsome also, but of a dark Moorish sort of beauty. Not a popular man, by any means. Too reservedâ€" coldâ€"I don’t know what it is. Have you any other cousins ‘2" “ Not on my mother's side. Grandpapa had but three children, you knowâ€"mymother, and Philip’s mother, and Marcia’s father ; he married an Italian actress, which must have been a. terrible mesalliance, and yet Marcia is made much of, While I am not even recognized. Does it not sound unfair 7” “ Perhaps that explains his harshness. To be deceived by one we love engenders the bit- terest hatred of all. And yet how could he hate poor mamma? John says she had the most beautiful, lovable face." “Unaccountable. Especially as I have often heard your mother was his favorite child. !” “I can well believe it.” replies he, gazing with undisguised admiration upon the perfect profile beside him. ‘ - “ And Marcia. will be an heiress, I sup posefl?” â€" “She and Philip will divide everything, people say, the place, of course, going to _Philip. Lucky he 1 Any one might envy him. VOL XXII. So much so that you could not. be more You know they both live there entirely, a1- theugh Marcia’s mother is alive and resides somewhere abroad. Philip was in some dra- goon regiment, but sold out about two years ago ;debt, I fancy, was the cause, or something like it.” “ Marcia is the girl you ought to have fallen in love with, Ted." “ No, thank you; I very much prefer her cousin. Besides. I should have no chance, as she and Philip are engaged to each other; they thought it a. pity to divide the twenty thousand pounds a year. Do you know, Mol- 1y, I never knew what it was to covet my neighbor’s goods until I met you ? So you have that to answer for; but it does seem hard that one man should be so rich, and another so poor." “ Are you poor, Teddy?” “ Very. Will that make you like me less ?” “ Probably it will make me like you more,” replies she, with a bewitching smile. stroking down the hand that supports the obnoxious umbrella (the other is supporting herself) al- most tenderly. “ It is only the very nicest men that haven’t a farthing in the world. I have no money either, and if I had I could not keep it, so we are Well met.” “ Never 1" with a gay laugh. “If 1 were going to marry you next week or so, it might occur to me to ask the question ; but every- thing is so far away, what does it signify? If you had the mines of Golconda, I should not like you a. bit better than I do." “ But think what a bad match you are mak- ing,” says he, regarding her curiously. “ Did you never ask yourself whether I was well ofi, or otherwise?” “I call five hundred and fifty pounds a year a great deal,” says Molly, with a faint ring of disappointment in her tone. “ I fan- cied you downright poor from what you said. Why, you might marry to-morrow morning on that." “ So I might,” agrees he, eagerly; “ and so I will. That is, not to-morrow exactly, but as soon as ever I can.” “Perhaps you will,” says Molly, slowly; “ but, if so, it will not be me you will marry. Bear that in mind. No, we won’t argue the matter ; as far as I am concerned it doesn’t admit of argument." Then recurring to the former topic; “ why, John has only seven hundred pounds, and he has all the children and Letitia and me to provide for, and he keeps_ Lovatâ€"that is the eldest boyâ€" at a very good school as well. How could you call yourself poor, with five hundred pounds a year)” “ It ought to be six hundred and fifty pounds; but I thought it a pity to burden myself with superfluous wealth in mylpslmy days, so I got rid of it,” says he, laughing. “Gambling ‘2” ” Well, yes, I suppose so.” “ Cards .9” “ No, horses. It was in Indiaâ€"stupid part, you know; and nothing to do. Potts sug- gested military races, and we all caught at it. Andâ€"and I didn’t have much luck, you know," winds up Luttrell, ingenuously. “ I don’t like that young man,” says Molly, severely. “ You are always talking of him, and he is my idea of a ne’er-do-Well. Your Mr. Potts seems never to be out of mischief. He is the head and front of every ofi’ence.” “ Are you talking of Potts ?” says her lover, in grieved amazement. “ A better fel- low never stepped. Nothing underhaHd about Potts. When you see him you will agree with “ I will not. I can see him in my mind’s eye already. I know he 'is tall, and dark, and insinuating, and, in fact, a. Mephisto- pheles.” Luttrell roars. “ Oh, if you could but see Potts 1” he says. “ He is the best fellow in the world, butâ€"â€"â€"» He ought to be called Rufus; his hair is red, his face is red, his nose is red, he is all red,” finishes Tedcastle, with a keen enjoyment of his friend's misfortunes. ” Poor man,” kindly; "I forgive him his small sins; he must be sufficiently punished by his uglinesrsl. Didygu like being in_ India ‘2" “ Pretty well. At times it was rather slow, and our regiment has somehow gone to the dogs of late. No end of underbred fellows have joined with quite too much the linen- draper about them to be tolerated.” “ How sad! Your candor amazes me. I thought every soldier made it a point to be enthusiastic over his brother soldiers, Whether, by being so, he lied or not.” “ Then look upon me as an exception. The fact is, I grew rather discontented about three years ago, when my greatest chum sold out and got married. You have no idea how lost a fellow feels when that happens. But for Potts I might have succumbed." “ Potts i’ What a sweet name it is!” says Molly, _ mischievously. “ What’s in a name ‘1” with a laugh. “ He was generally called Mrs. Luttrell, we were so much together; so his own didn‘t matter. But I missed Penthony Stafford awfully.” “ And Mrs. Penthony; did you like her ?” “ Lady Staflord you mean '2 Penthony is a beronet. Yes, I like her immensely, and the whole affair was so peculiar. You won‘t believe me when I tell you, that though they have been married for three years, her hus. band has never seen her.” “ But that would be impossible." “ It is a fact for all that. Shall I tell you the story? Most people know it by this, I think; so I am breaking no faith by telling it to you.” “ Wéll, to begin with, you must understand that she and her husband are first cousins. Havgyou mastered the/g faict ?”_ “I Never mind whether you are or not,” says M01117; ff I mAust‘undyyill hear it now._” “ Though not particularly gifted, I think I have. I rather flatter myself I could master more than that,” says Molly, significantly, giving his eat a pinch, short but sharp. “ She is also a cousin of mine, though not so near. Well, about three years ago, when she was only Cecil Hargreve, and extremely poor, an uncle of theirs died, leaving his en- tire property, which Was very considerable, between them, on the condition that they should marry each other. If they refused, it was to go to a lunatic asylum, or a refuge for dogs, or something equally uninter- esting.” “ fie would have made a. very successful lu- natic himself, it seems to me. What a terrible condition I” “Now, up to this they had been utter strangers to each other, had never even been face to face, and being told they must marry whether they liked it or not, or lose the RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, JUNE 12, 1879. money, they of course on the spot conceived an undying hatred for each other. Penthony even refused to see his possible wife, when urged to dose, and Cecil on her part quite as strenuously opposed a‘meeting. Still, they could not make up their - minds to let such a good property slip through their fingers.” “ It was hard.” ‘ / “ Things dragged on so for three months, and then Cecil, being a. woman, was naturally the one to see a. way out of' it. - She 'wrote to Sir Pent-bony saying, if he would Sign a. deed giving her a third of the money, and promis- ing never to claim her as his wife, or interfere with her in any Way, beyond having the mar- riage ceremony read between them, she would marry him.” - » ‘ “ Why, he agreed, of course. What was it to him? he had never seen her, and had no wish to make her acquaintance. The docu- ment was signed, the license‘ was procured. 0n the morning of the wedding, he looked up a best man, and went down to the country, saw nothing of his bride until a few minutes before the service began, when she entered the room covered with so thick a veil that he saw quite as little of her then, was married, made his best bow to the new Lady Staflord, and immediately returning to town, set out a few days later for a foreign tour which has lasted ever since. Now, is not that a, thrilling romance, and have I not described it‘ graphi- cally 7” marry mm.“ - » ‘ ‘. “ And he ‘2" asks Molly, eagerly, bending forward in her excitement; .‘ “ The ‘Polite Story-teller’ sinks into insig- nificance beside you: such a flow of language deserves a better audience. But really, Teddy, I never heard so extraordinary a. Mary. To marry a woman and never have the curiosity to raise her veil to see whether she was ugly or pretty 1 It is inconceivable ! He must be made of ice.” “He is warm-hearted, and one of the jol- liest iellows you could meet. Curiously enough, from a letter he wrote me just before startng he gave me the impression that he believed his wife to be not only plain, but vul- gar in appearance." “ And is she ‘2" I “ She is positively lovely. Rather small, perhaps, but exquisitely fair, with large laugh- ing blue eyes, and the most fetching manner. If he had raised her veil, I don’t believe he would ever have gone abroad to ’cultivete the dusky nigger.” - “ Whar bee me of herâ€"poor maid for- lorn 7" “ She up milking the eow with the crumpled: m, and the country generally, and came up to London, where she took a house; went into society, and was the rage all last season.” “ Why did you not tell him hofifetty EEG was 3” impatiently: “ Because I was in Ireland at that time on leave, and heard nothing of it until I received that letter telling of the marriage and his de. parture. I was thunderstmck, you may be sure, but it was too late then to interfere. Some one told me the other day he is on his way 110me."n ‘u‘ When Greek meets Greek, we know what happens,” says Molly. “ I think their meeting will be awkward." “Rather. She is to be at Herst this autumn; she was a ward of your grand- father’s.” “ Don't fall in love with her, Teddy.” ~ ~ ‘ “How can I, when you have put it out of my power? There is no room in my heart for any one .but Molly Bawn. Besides, it would be energy wasted, as she is encased in steel. A woman in her equivocal position, and possessed of so much beauty, might be supposed to find it difficult to stéer her bark safely through all the temptatiogsfof a London season; yet the flattery she received. and all the devotion that waslaid at her feet, touched her no more than if she was ninety, instead of twenty-three.” ~' “ Yet "what a risk it is I Howwill it be some day if she falls in love? as they say all people do once in their lives." - ‘ ,“ Why, then she will have her mauvais quart d’heure, like the rest of us. Up to the present she has enjoyed her life to the ut- most, and finds eyerything couleur de rose.” “ Ié it ?” asks he, wistfully. ‘.‘\You are my loveâ€"are you kind ?” “ Would it not be charming," says Molly with much empressemem, “if when Sir Pen- ‘thony comes home and sees her, they should both fall in love with each other?” “Charming, but highly improbable. The fates are seldom so propitious. It is far more likely they will fall madly in love with two other people, and be unhappy ever after.” “ Oh, cease such raven’s creaking,” says Molly, laying her hand upon his lips. “ I will not listen to it. Whatever the Fates may be, Love, I know, is kind.” “ And you are my lover,” returns Molly. “ And you most certainly are not kind, for that is the third time you have all but run that horrid umbrella into my left eye. Surely because you hold it up for your own personal convenience is no reason why you should make it an instrument of torture to every one else. Now you may finish picking those strew- berries Without me, for I shall not stay here another instant in deadly fear of being blinded for life.” With this speechâ€"so flagrantly unjust as to render her companion dumbâ€"she rises, and catching up her gown, runs swiftly away from him down the garden-path, and under the wealthy trees, until at last the garden-gate receives her in its embrace and hides her from his View. “ Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain.’ â€"SHAKESPEARE. All round one side of Brooklyn, and edging on to the retired butcher’s country residence, or rather what he is pleased to term. with a. knowing jerk of the thumb over his right shoulder, his “ little villar in the south,” stretches a belt of trees, named by courtesy the wood. It isacharming spot, widening and thickening towards one corner, which has been well named the “ Fairies’ Glen," where crowd together all the living grasses and wild flowers that thrive and bloom so bravely when nursed on the earth’s bosom. On one side rise gray rocks, cold and dead, save for the little happy life that, springing up above, flows over them, leaping, laughing from crag to Greg, bedewing leaf and blossom, and dashing its gem-like spray over all the lichens and velvet mosses and feathery ferns that grow here luxuriantly to hide the rugged jags of stone. Here, at night, the owls delight to hoot, the bats go whirring past, the moonbeams surely cast their kindest rays; by day the pigeons coo from the topmost boughs their tale of love, while squirrels sit blinking merrily, or run their Silvios on their Derby days. Just now it is neither mght nor garish day, but a soft early twilight, and on the sward that glows as green as Erin’s sit Molly and her attendant slave. “ The reason I like you,” says Molly, re- verting to something that has gone before, and tilting back her hat so that all her pretty face is laid bare to the envious sunshine, while the soft rippling locks on her forehead make advances to each other through the breeze, ” the reason I like youâ€"noâ€"â€"3’ see- ing a tendency on his part to creep nearer, “ no, stay where you are. I only said I liked you. If I had mentioned the Word love, then indeedâ€"â€"but, as it is, it is far too warm to admit of any endearments." " You ar'e rightâ€"as you always are,” says CHAPTER VIII. “You interrupted me,” says Miss Masse- reene, leaning back comfortably and raising her exquisite eyes in lazy admiration of the green and leafy tangle far above her. “I was going to say that the reason I like you so much is because you look so youngâ€" quite as- young as I doâ€"more so, indeed, I think.” i Luttrell, with suspicious amiability,” being piqu_e_d. _ V “ It is a. poor case,” says Luttrell, “ when a girl of nineteen looks older than a man of twenjy-seyen.” ‘ “ That is not the way to put it. It is a. charming and novel. case when a man of twenty-seven looks younger than a. girl of nineteen." ” How much younger ?” asks Luttrell, who is still sufficiently youthful to have a hunk- ering after mature age. “ Five years? Ten ? Am I fourteen or nine years old in your esti- mation ‘2” “ Don’t let us dispute the point," says Mol- ly, ‘f and don’t get cross. I see you are on for a hot argument, and I never could follow evenamild one. I think you young, and you should be glad of it, as it is the one good thingIsee about you.» As a rule I prefer dark menâ€"but for their unhappy knack of looking old from their cradlesâ€"and have a perfect passion for black eyes, black skin, black locks, and a general appearance of fieroeness ! Indeed, I have always thought, up to this, that there was something about a fair man almost ridiculous. Have not you ‘2" ' Here she brings her eyes back to the earth again, and fastens them upon him with the mosfiienggging‘ fragkness. “ No. HI Eonvfess it fiever occurred to me be- fore,” returns Luttrell, coloring slightly through his 789.3011 skin. Silence. If there is any silent moment in the throbbing summer. Above them the faint music of the leaves, below the breathing of the flowers. the hum of insects. All the air is full of the sweet warblings of innumer- able songsters. Mingling with these in the pleasant drip, drip ,of the falling Water.‘ A great lazy bee falls, as though no longer able to sustain its mighty frame. right into Miss Massereene’s lap, and lies there hum- ming. With alittle start she shakes it off, almost fearing to touch it with her dainty rose-White fingers. Thus rudely roused, she speaks. “ Are you asleep?" she asks, not turning her heedfih her companion’s direction. “ No,” coldly; " are you ?" “ yes, almost, and dreaming.” “ Dreams are the children of an idle brain,” quotes he, somewhat maliciously. “ Yes ?” sweetly. “ And soyou really have read your Shakespeare? And can actually ap- ply it every now and then with effect, to the utter confusion of your friends? But I think you might have spared me. Teddy l" bending forward, and casting upon him a. bewitahing, tormenting, adorable glance from under her dark lashes, “ if you bite your moustache any harder it will come off, and then what will be- come of me 2" . With a laugh Luttrell flings away the fem he has been reducing to ruin, and rising throws_him_seli u_pon the grass fit her feet. _ “ Why don’t I hate you 2" he says, vehe- mently. “Why cannot I feel even decently angry‘with you? You torment and charm me in the same breath. At times I say to myself, ‘She is cold, heartless, unfeeling,’ and then a Word, a look-â€"Molly," seizing her cool, slim little hand as it lies passive in her lap, “ tell me, do you think you willever, I do not mean to-monow or in a week, or a month; but in all the long years to come, do you think you will ever love me ?” As he finishes speaking, he {188888 his lips with passionate tenderness to er hand. " "' ‘” 7"" ‘ ’ “ Now. who gave you leave to do that ?” asks Molly, apropos of the kissing. " Never mind; answer me.” “ But I do mind very much indeed. I mind dreadfully.” ‘ "Well; then, I apologize, and I am very sorry. and I won’t do it again; is that enough 7” “ No, the fact still remains,” gazing at her hand with a. little pout, as though the offend- ing kiss were distinctly visible ; “ and I don’t want it.” “ But what can be done ?" I “ I thinkâ€"you had betterâ€"take it back again,” says she, the pretended pout dissolv- ing into an irresistible smile, as she slips her fingers with a. sudden unexpected movement into his ; after which she breaks into a merry laugh. “And now tell me,” he persists, holding them close prisoners, and estowing a. loving caresswupqn each separate y. “ Whether I love you ? How can I, when I don’t know myself? Perhaps at the very and I may be sure. When I lie dying you must come to me, and bend over me. and say, Molly Bawn, do you love me? And I shall whisper back with my last breath, yesâ€"or no, as the case may be.” “ Don’t talk of dying,” he says, with a shudder. tightening his clasp. “ Why not? as we must die." “ But not now, not while we are young and happy. Afterwards, when old age creeps on us and we look on love as weariness, it will not matter." “ To me, that is the horror of it,” with a quick, distasteful shiver, leaning forward in her earnestness, “to feel that sooner or later there will be no hope ; that we must go, whether with or without our own Willâ€"and it is never with itâ€"is it 7” “Never, I suppose." “ It does not frighten me so much to think that in a month, or perhaps next year, or at any moment, I may dieâ€"there is a blessed uncertainty about thatâ€"but to know that no matter how long I linger, the time will surely come when no prayers, or entreaties will avail. They say of one who has cheated death for seventy years, that he has had a good long life ; taking that, then. as an average, I have just fifty-one years to live, only half that to enjoy. Next year it will be fifty. then forty- nine, and so on until it comes down to one. What shall I do then ?” “My own darling, how fanciful you are 1 your hands have grown cold as ice. Probably when you are seventy you will consider your- self a. still fascinating person of middle age, and look upon all these thoughts of to-day as the sickly fancies of an infant. Do not let us talk about it any more. Your face is white.” “ Yes,” says Molly, recovering herself with a sigh. “It is the one thing that horrifies me. John is religious, so is Letty, while Iâ€" oh that I could find pleasure in it! You see,” speaking after a slight pause, with a. smile, “ I am at heart a. rebel, and hate to obey. Mind you never give me an order! How good it would be tobe young. and gay. and full of easy laughter, alwaysâ€"to have lovers at command, to have some one at my feet for- ever 1” “ Some one.” sadly. “ Would any one do? Oh, Molly, can you not be satisfied with me ‘2” ” How can I be sure ? At presentâ€"yes,” running her fingers lightly down the earnest, handsome face upraised to here, apparently quite forgetful of her late emotion. “ Well, at all events,” says the young man, with the air of one who is determined to make the best of a bad bargain,‘ “ there is no man you like better than me." ” At presentâ€"110,” says the incorrigible M0111. “ You are the greatest flirt I ever met in my life.” exciaims he. with sudden anger. “ Who? I 7" (I. “Yes â€"you,” vehemently. A pause. They are much farther apart by this time, and are looking anywhere but at each other. Molly has her lap full of daisies, and is stringing them into a. chain 'in rather an absent fashion ; while Luttrell, who is too angry -to pretend indifference, is sitting with a. gloom on his brow, and a straw in his month, which latter he is biting vindic- 1'.inert ‘ “ I must be growing stupid then. You have accused me of flirting; and how am I to un- derstand that, I who never flirted? How should I? I would not know how.” “ Pshaw!” wrathfully, “ have you been waiting for me to tell you? It is trying to make a. fool of a fellow, neither more nor less. You are pretending to love me, when you know in your heart you don‘t care that for me." The ” that" is both forcible and expressive, and has reference to an indig- nant sound made by his thumb and his second finger. “ i don’t believe I quite understand you,” says_Mohy. at lgngjh. v“ Do yo'u' not? “I cannot remember saying anything ye_ry djfiiqult of cogpyehengjon: “ You must allow me to difier with you ; or, at all events, let me say your imitation of it is Amigth ficcessfgl.” ” Bli’t.”'with anxious hesitation, “what is flirtigg?” “ I was not aware that I ever pretended to love you." replies Molly, in a. tone that makes him wince. ‘Well, let us say no more about it,” cries he, springing to his feet, as though unable longer to endure his enforced quietucle. " If you don’t care for me, you don’t, you know, and that is all about it. I dare say I shall get over it; and if not why, I shall not be the only man in the world made miserable for a. woman’s amusement.” Molly has also risen, and, with her long daisy chain hanging from both her hands, is looking a perfect picture of injured innocence ; although in truth she is honestly sorry for her cruel speech. “ I don’t believe you know how unkinl you are,” she says, with a. suspicion of tears in her voice, whether feigned or real he hardly dares conjecture. Feeling herself in the wrong, she seeks meanly to free-herself from the flake position by placing-him there in her stea . “ Do not let us speak about unkindness, or anything else,” says the young man, impa- tiently. “ Of what use is it? It is the same thing always; I am obnoxious to you; we cannot put together two sentences without coming to open war.” “ But whose fault was it‘this time 2' Think of what you accuse me 1 I did not believe you could be so rude to me I” with reproachful emphasis. ' Here she directs a slow lingering glance at him from her violet eyes. There are visible signs of relenting about her companion. He colors, and persistently refuses, after the first involuntary glance, to allow his gaze to meet hers again ; which is, of all others, the surest symptom of a coming rout. There are some eyes that can do almost anything with a man. Molly’s eyes are of this order. They are her strongest point ; and were they her solo charm, were she deaf and dumb, I believe it would be possible to her, by the power of their expres- sivebeautyalone, to draw most hearts into her keeping. ' “ Believe nothing," murmurs she, coming nearer to lay a timid hand upon his arm, and raising her face to his, “ except this, that. I am your dwixifolly." “Did you mean what you said just now, that you had no love for me ‘I” he asks, with a last vain effort to be stern and unforgiving. “ Am I to believe that I am no more to you than npy other man ?" “Are you ?” cries he, in a subdued‘tone, straining her to his heart, and speaking with an emotional indrawing ot the breath that be- trays more than his words how deeply he is feeling, " my very own ‘2 Nay, more than that. Molly, you are my all, my world, my life; if ever you forget me, or give me up for another, you will kill me ; remember that.” V“ I will remember it. I will never do it,” re- plies she, soothingly, the touch of mother- hood that is in all good women coming to the front as she sees his agitation. " Why should I, when you are such a dear old boy ? Now come and sit down again, and be reasonable. See, I will tie you up with my flowery chain as punishment for your behavior, and"â€"with a demure smileâ€"“ the kiss you stole in the melee yrithout my permission? “ This is the chain by which I hold you," he says, rather sadly, sruveying his wrists, round which the daisies cling. “ The links that bind me to you are made of sterner stufi. Sweetheart,” turning his handsome, singular- ly youthful face to hers, and speaking with an entreaty that suvors strongly of despair, “ do not let your beauty be my curse I” “Why, who is fanciful now 7” says Molly, making a little grimace at him. “ And truly, to hear you speak. one must believe love is blind. Is it Venus," saucily, “ or Helen of Troy, I most closely resemble ? or am I something more exquisite still? It puzzles me why you should think so very highly of my personal charms. Ted,” leaning forward to look into her lover’s eyes. “ tell me this. Have you been much away? Abroad, I mean, on the Conti- nent and that ?" “ Well, yes, pretty much so.” “ Have you been to Paris ‘2" “ Oh, yes, several times.” “ Brussels ?" " Yes.” ” Vienna ?” “ No. I wait to go there with you.” “ Rome 7” I “Yes, twice. The governor was fond of sending us abroad between the ages of seven- teen and twenty-fiveâ€"to enlarge our minds, he said ; to get rid of us, he meant.” “ Are there many of you 7" “ An awful lot. I would be ashamed to say how many. Ours was indeed a numerous father.” “ He isn’t dead 7” asks Molly in the low tone befitting the occasion in case he should be. ” Oh, no; he is alive and kicking.” replies Mr. Luttrell, with more force than eloquence. “ And I hope he will keep on so for years to come. He is about the best friend I have, or am lilfely to have.” “ I hope he won’t keep up the kicking part of it,” says Molly, with a, delicious laugh that ripples through the air and shows her utter enjoyment of her own wit. Not to laugh, when Molly laughs, is impossible; so Luttrell joins her, and they both make merry over his vulgarity. In all the world what is there sweeter than the happy, penetrating, satisfy- ing laughter of unhurt youth? “ Lucky you, to have seen so much al- ready,” says Molly, presently, with an envious sigh; “ and yet," with a View to self-support, “ what gcod has it done you? Not one atom. After all your travelling you can do nothing greater than fall absurdly in love with a vil- lage maiden. Will your father call that en- larging your mind ?" ‘71 Eépe so,” concealing his misgivings on the point. “But why put it so badly? Instead of village maiden, say the lovliest girl I ever met." “What 1" cries Molly, the most naive de- light and satisfaction animating her tone ; “ after going through France, Germany, Italy, and India, you can honestly say I am the lov- liestyoman you ever_ {net 7” “ You put it too mildly.” Bays Luttrell, rais- ing himself on his elbow to gaze with admir- ation at the charming face above him, “ I can WHOLE N0. 1,092â€"NO, 1: M Teefy say more. You aie ten thousand times the lovliest woman I ever met.” - Molly Emilee, n95 nleie, she fairly dimples. Try as she will and does, she cannot conceal the pleasure it gives her to hear her praises sung. A . u . .u ,1- “Why, then I am a belle, a. toast,” she says, endeavoring unsuccessfully to see. her image in the little basin of water that has gathered at the foot of the rocks; “ while you,” turning to ruii~ five white fingers over his hair caressingly, and then all down his face. “ you are the most delightful person I ever met. It is so easy to believe what you tell one, and so pleasant. I have half a mind to â€"kiss you I” . . x ‘ -,,1u W“ Doi’dtvszép there; have 9. whole mind,” says Luttrell, eagerly. “ Klss me at once be- fore the firmcyr evapgmfesf ... . n “ No,” holding him back with one lazy fin- ger (he is easy to be repulsed), “ on second thoughts I will reserve my caress. Some other time, when you are goodâ€"perhaps. By the bye, Ted, did you really mean you would take me to Vienna. ?” " Yes, if you rmfld care to go there.” “ Care 1 that ' ‘ the question. It will cost a great deal of money to get there, won’t it? Shall we be able to afford it ‘2" “ Wait until yom father hears you have wedded a. pauper, and then you will see what a check you will get," says Miss Massereene, with a contemptible attempt at a joke. “A pun!” says Luttrell, springing to his feet with a. groan; “ that means a pinch. So prepare.” .._ .. . . . u 1 “ No doubt the governor will stand to me, and give a. check for the occasion,” says Lut- trell. warming to the subject. “ Anyhow, you shango. if you: wish it._” I “I forbid you," cries she, inwardly quak- ing, and, rising hurriedly, stands well away from him, with her petticoats caught together in one hand ready for flight. “ I won’t allow you._ Don’t attempt to touch‘mel’ ” Dear Teddy, good Teddy," cries she, “ spare me this time, and I will never do it again, no, not though it should tremble for- ever on the tip of my tongue. As you are strong, be merciful. Do_forgive me this once.” “ Impossible.” “Then I defy you,” retorts Miss Masse- reene, who, having manoeuvred until she has placed a good distance between herself and the foe, now turns, and flies through the trees, making very successful running for the open beyond. Not until they are within full view of the house does he manage to come up with her. And then the presence of John sunning himself on the hall-door step, sur- rounded by his family,efleetually prevents her ever obtaining that richlydeservod pun- ishment. v 7“ It is the 1awa the land," declares he, advancing on her, whlle she as steadily re- treats. " After long years." It is raining, not only raining, but pouring. All the graclous sunshine of yesterday is ob- literated, forgotten, while in its place the sul- len raindropsdash themselves with suppressed fury against the window-panes. Huge drops they are, swollen with the hidden rage of many days, that fall, and burst heavily, and make the easements tremble. Outside, the flowers droop and hang their pretty heads in sad Wonder at this undeserved Nemesis that has overtaken them. Along the sides of the graveled paths small rivulets run frightened. There is no song of birds in all the air. Only the young short grass unrears itself. and, drinking in with eager greediness the welcome but angry shower, refuses to bend its neck beneath the yoke. “ How I hate a wet day I” says Luttrell, moodily, for the twentieth time, staring blank- ly out of the deserted school-room window, where he and Molly have been yawning and moping for the last half hour. “' D5 you? I love it," replies she, out of a sheer spirit of contradiction; as, if there is one thing she utterly abhors, it is the idea of ram. “ Without doubt,” replies she, laughing too; so that a very aueeessful opening is rash- ly neglected. “ Surely it cannot keep on like this all day,” she says, presently, in a dismal tone, betraying by her manner the falsity of her former admiration; “we shall have a. dry winter it it continues much longer. Has any wise man yet discovered how much rain the clouds are capable of containing at one time ‘2 It would be such a blessing if they had; then we might know the worst, and make up our minds to it.” “ If I sald I loved it, you would say the re- verse,” says be, laughing, not feeling equal to the gxciyement of}: quarrel. “ That reminds me I have never yet paid you off for that misdemeanor. Now when time is hanging so heavily on my hands, is a. most favorable opportunity to pay the debt. I em- brace it. And you too. So prepare for cav- alry.f’ _ Meantime, Le ‘ md. John in the mom- ing-roomâ€"thm m u gkoader house would havb been designated a boudoirâ€"are holding a. hot discussion. Lovat, the eldest son, being the handsomest and by far the most scampish of her children, is of course his mother’s idol. His master, however, having written to say that up to this, in spite of all the trouble that has been taken with him, he has evinced a far greater disposition for cricket and punching his com- panions’ heads than for his Greek and Latin, Lovat’s father has given it as his opinion that Lovat deserves a right good flogging; while Lovat’s mother maintains that all noble. high-spirited boys are just like that, and asks Mr. Massereene, with the air of a Q. 0., whether he never felt a distaste for the dead languages. “Drop a line to the clerk of the weather of- fice; he might make it his business to find out yo_u askegl himi” _ “ Is that a. joke ?" with languid disgust. “ And you professed yourself indignant with me yesterday when I perpetrated a really su- perior one 1 You ought to be ashamed of your- self. I would not congescend to any-thing no feeble.” ‘7 A fig for all the hussars in Europe,” cries Mglgy, with infidomihble courage. Mr. Massereene replying that he never did, that he was always a model boy, and never anywhere but at the head of his class, his wife instantly declares that she doesn’tbelieve a. word of it, and most unfairly rakes up a. dead-and-gone story. in which Mr. Massereene figures as the principal feature,and is discov- ered during school-hours on the top of a neighbor’s apple-tree, with a long-suffering but irate usher at the foot of it, armed with his indignation and a bitch rod. “And. for three mortal hours he stood there, while I sat up aloft and grinned at him," says Mr. Massereene, with (considering his years) a disgraceful appreciation of his past immoral conduct ; “ and when at last the gardener was induced to mount the tree and drag me ignominiously to the ground, I got such a flogging as made a, chair for some time assume the character of a rack.” “And you deserved it, too," says Letitia, withiulgwiontgd geverity. “I did indeed, my dear,” John confesses, heartily, “richly. I am glad to see that at last you begin to take a. sensible view of the subject. If I deserved a. flogging be- cause I once shirked my tasks, what does not Lovat deserve for along course of such con- duct ?” “ He is not accused of stealing apples at all events ; and, besides, Lovat is quite different," says Letitia, vaguely. Whereupon John tells her her heart is running away with her head, and that her partiality is so apparent that he must cease from further argument, and goes on rwith his reading. Presently. however, he rises, and, crossing the room, stands over her, watching her white shapely fingers as they deftly fill up the holes in the little socks that lie in the basket beside her. She is so far en rapport with him as to know that his manner betokens a. desire for confidence. “ Have you anything to say to me, dear ‘2” she asks, looking up and suspending her em- ployylepfi fo_1_' t_he fiimg being. ‘ “Letitia,” begins he, tfioughtfully, not to say solemnly, “ it is quite two months sincfi [CONTINUED ON FOURTH PAGE.) CAAPTER IX.