He shut his eyes and leaned back against the dark velvet cushions

of the chair, a half-defined smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"Now begin," she said, softly.

"First," he said, reaching out his hand until he could touch the proud little head, "there are two eyes shining down on me like stars; they are blue in the sunshine, and purple as pansies in the shade; there is a straight little nose, and a beautiful mouth with transparent teeth; rosy cheeks, made for a lover's kisses; a dainty chin with a dimple in it, and a slender white throat, fit only for strings of milk-white pearls ! Then, over all, there is a wealth of nut-brown hair around my darling's face, where just now the lilly and the rose are holding sweet contention. May I open my eyes now, Blossom?"

There was no reply; and he looked up suddenly, to find Leslie with her face hidden in her hands, and tears dropping through her fingers. "Why, Leslie, my darling, what is the matter?"

"Oh, Richard," she said, softly sobbing, "do you really love me as much as you say? When I shall be your wife, will there never be another face to come between us?"

A moment's solemn pause. And then Richard Ensor spoke gravely, "Trust me, Leslie, nothing shall ever come between us. Not even a memory?"

But, even as he went out, he whispered a word or two to Miss Grey in passing. She was then sitting under the stars by the acacia tree. "Be entirely silent until we have spoken together, Margaret. For my sake."

Never in all her young and careless life had Leslie Russell awakened to joy so great as on that first day after she had promised to be Richard Ensor's wife.

She had her little faults and follies; but she was a good girl withal; and she loved him deeply, and meant to be ever faithful and true.

It was the first day of May. Bird-songs were ringing in the trees, the gay, golden sunbeams were dancing on the greensward; and over the far-away purple hills a mantle of soft mist hung, kissed by the glad morning from sober grey to a brilliant amethyst.

Leslie sat at her window a long time, looking out with sparkling eyes upon the landscape, whose smallest feature had been familiar to her from her childhood; but she did not note much of its varied beauties— she only felt that Richard Ensor loved her, and under that sweet knowledge all the world grew bright.

It seemed to her as if she had no longer any wish ungratified, unless it was-ah, there was Richard himself coming up the walk; and with a gay good-morning nod, she flew down the stairs to welcome him.

But when she reached the hall, Margaret Grey stood like a shadow

in her path; and she felt half undecided whether to go straight forward to meet her lover, or to turn back. And why this curious feeling in regard to Margaret should have dawned on her, the semi-jealousy, she knew not. Margaret saw her, turned from Mr. Ensor, to whom she was about to speak, and met her with a smile, saying she would take the flowers (some she held in her hand) to the breakfast-room.

"Flowers!" exclaimed Leslie in surprise. "Where did you get such beauties ?"

And she bent her head to hide her pink cheeks among the pink blossoms.

"In the woods, dear," Margaret replied, kissing the white forehead lightly, while her own cheeks burned brightly. "They are only simple wild flowers, but I know how your mother enjoys seeing flowers near her always, and so

"But there is the garden," Leslie said, a slight surprise in her voice; "it is fairly overflowing with flowers. Could you not have gathered your bouquet there?"

"To tell the truth, I believe the bright morning tempted me," replied Margaret. "And you know your mother was longing yesterday for some wild flowers. I was up hours ago," she added, laughing, and vanished.

At that moment the walnut leaves of the outer door swung open, and Mr. Ensor came in, a perplexed look in his dark eyes. But it was succeeded by an expression of instant relief when he saw Leslie.

"Dear Leslie !" Mr. Ensor murmured, as she met him. "You must forgive this early intrusion, but I could wait no longer to know if my happiness was a reality! The shadows of the night made me half afraid that the hope was, after all, only a dream."

"A pleasant dream is sometimes better than the reality!" Leslie said, laughing.

"But not in this case," he rejoined. "I wish I had you safe and sure, my darling."

Looking up, Leslie saw her mother standing silent on the stairs above. Her face was very pale, and she struggled vainly with the emotions which strove to master her.

"Mamma, dear mamma!" Leslie cried, dropping her lover's hand, and running up to meet her mother. "What is the matter?" But her mother's face was turned away, and her hand was cold in Leslie's grasp.

"Mrs. Russell, will you give me just ten minutes before breakfast?" asked Mr. Ensor.

"As many minutes as you wish," she replied, a little haughtily. "You are an early visitor. We do not breakfast until ten. Leslie, wait for me; I will see Mr. Ensor in the library."

Leslie obeyed in silence; she did not like the look on Mrs. Russell's

face. She turned into the breakfast-room, where she stood idly by the table, and pulled to pieces the tiny bouquet Margaret had left at her plate.

Mrs. Russell went on to the library, and when they were shut in, motioned her visitor to a seat opposite her own.

"And now, Mr. Ensor, what is it you have to say to me?"

"I want you to give me your daughter," he said, coming at once to the point. "I have loved her for some time, Mrs. Russell. Last night I spoke, and asked her to be my wife."

"And what did Miss Russell say?"

"She acknowledged that she loved me," he said, with a smile of sweet triumph in his eyes. "I do not think that you will refuse to make us happy, Mrs. Russell? "

"I refuse you nothing," she said, calmly; "but as Leslie has no father to look after her interests, you must excuse me if I enquire into your capability of suitably maintaining my daughter."

"It is only right that you should do so," Mr. Ensor frankly answered. "Hitherto my income has been comparatively small, an easy competence; but my uncle is now dead-as you have, I think, heardand I am his sole heir. I wish to go home to England as soon as may be now, to enter into possession of the estate."

"And his estate was-?" Mrs. Russell began, leaning eagerly forward.

There was some scorn on Mr. Ensor's face, but he suppressed it at once. Mrs. Russell was mercenary to a degree.

"Your daughter loved me as a poor man, Mrs. Russell; but to you I will say that my income will be a very large one. Vouchers for it shall be laid before you."

A swift red mantled Mrs. Russell's face and neck, but she managed to rise with her usual dignity.

"We must think of everything," she said, giving her hand to her future son-in-law. "Young people, lovers especially, think they can live on sentiment; but those of us who have gained experience in the world know differently!"

"You are satisfied, then, with Leslie's decision ?"

"Yes," she said. And Mrs. Russell sank back in her chair with a satisfied smile on her face. For she had done just what she had always intended to do-secured a rich husband for her daughter.

Margaret Grey had fought a stern battle with her own heart, and come off conqueror.

A dozen times she had said to herself that first night that she would go to Richard Ensor, and insist upon his speaking. But she did not do it; perhaps for the sake of those old happy times in Europe.

"I have sacrificed so much for them all. Must I make yet another sacrifice for Leslie's sake?"

For if

But then, over and above every bitter feeling was the memory of the light kiss Leslie Russell had left on her lips in greeting. Her heart thrilled as she thought of it; her eyes ran over with tears. there was one quality Margaret possessed above all, it was that of tender affection.

"No!" she exclaimed.

"Mine shall not be the hand to dash down her cup of happiness. If I must live in silence, and carry these secrets to the grave with me, I will not make a hardship of the duty. Still, I think—I think he ought not to deceive her."

And brushing the waves of dark hair back from her brow, she tied on her pretty gypsy hat, and went down stairs and out, to gather her wild flowers. Coming back, she had seen Mr. Ensor.

"Richard!"

He turned swiftly. "Not here, not now, Margaret. We may be seen from the windows."

"But, Richard!" she murmured, half under her breath.

"Do not speak here, dear Margaret, though I know you have every right. I will meet you early to-morrow morning when you go to the wood to gather your wild flowers. We can talk there without fear of interruption."

She bowed in assent. He opened the gate for her to pass through before him, and lifted his hat.

And Leslie, watching from an upper window, had seen all this. A little spasm of jealousy stirred her heart-strings; a shadow, light as a summer cloud, rested on her brow.

"Of course, Richard had to open the gate for her; he is always a gentleman," she told herself. "But-they talked and looked as

though they knew each other."

And on that first night, now just past, when Richard Ensor reached his hotel in the town hard by, he began pacing his chamber with restless steps, as though something called him. Curious thoughts were troubling his brain.

"How the old faces come back!-and how false those days were when I told myself I was half-forgetting! Poor Margaret : I am sorry for her; yet I am not brave enough to tell Leslie the truth!"

And flinging up the window, he sat down to think out his puzzle.

Thoughts came fast thronging to his brain of the old, happy days in Europe; of these new, still happier days in America; and in all, this new-found happiness he had cherished no remembrance of poor lonely Margaret; no pity for her desolation.

Mr. Ensor went forth on the appointed morning to his meeting with Margaret Grey. What passed between them was spoken of by neither. At Mrs. Russell's there was no token given that they had ever known each other: even Leslie thought she must have been

mistaken. And in a day or two's time Margaret Grey showed an invitation that some friends had sent her, and went away again.

"It was no loss," said Mrs. Russell, "for she was sad enough to throw a gloom on the house."

And Richard Ensor married Miss Russell, and took her to his own home in England.

It was at Guerre, a quaint little town in the south of France.

Mr. and Mrs. Ensor, husband and wife for twelve months now, had halted at it. Fatigued with the London season, distracted with gaiety, they had gone forth on the continent, which he seemed to know so well, and travelled slowly and easily from place to place, just as whim or will prompted. They had not meant to stay at Guerre; it was but a stupid place at the best, Mr. Ensor told his wife; he had passed a short time at it once; but the breaking down of their travelling carriage compelled a halt at it. They did not favour the noisy and bustling railways, rather preferring to take their wanderings easily. Mr. Ensor, who appeared to chafe unaccountably at the delay, went to see after the damaged carriage, as soon as he had deposited his wife safely at the inn; a rural domicile, just outside the town, and standing in the midst of a lovely garden and still more lovely scenery. It turned out that the carriage had been damaged more than was supposed; two days would not more than suffice to mend it.

"What a fool I was to shape our course through Guerre!" mentally uttered Mr. Ensor. "And why did I? Only through some absurdly romantic wish of catching a glimpse of the old place again. But I meant to drive straight through it: not to stop. One would think Fate was at work. Fool, fool!"

His wife meanwhile was standing on the balcony of their bedroom at the Pomme d'Or-as the inn was somewhat fancifully styled— gazing at the enchanting scenery, and listening for the return of her husband. He came in with a somewhat weary step and joined her on the balcony. She nestled close to him, leaning her pretty face upon his breast.

"No one can disturb us now, Richard," she said. "No balls, or dinners, or tiresome visitors are here. I could fancy that we were alone in the world. See how those beautiful vines shut us in, and surround us with a fragrance that is like a breath of Paradise."

In good truth they did seem alone as they stood. The clustering vines trailed thickly around the trellis-work of the balcony, shutting them in from the outer world.

"The fellow says he cannot get the carriage done under two days,” cried Mr. Ensor, turning from the poetical to the practical. "What on earth we shall do, I can't tell."