Which of Them?

(by Mabel Fitzroy Wilson, 1863-1952)

"THERE never was such a ridiculous will made before in all England! The girl must hate me like poison!"

       "My dear fellow, it's not your fault;" and the little hussar puffed away at his big cigar as if to gain comfort from its volumes of smoke. He had made the same remark several times already, and it was getting a little monotonous, but he positively could think of nothing else to say; for though good nature was the very essence of Fred Oldfield's life, his brain power was not developed to the same extent.

       To be sure, it would have taxed a cleverer head to know how to advise Henry Vavasour under his present trying circumstances. They were briefly these.

       An old uncle, who, for some unknown reason, entertained a spite against his brother (Vavasour's father), had left all his property away to a distant cousin, a young lady. But, repenting at the last minute, or determined perhaps that she should not have unalloyed enjoyment of the same, he made it conditional that she should, at the age of twenty-one, marry his nephew; and, failing this, the money was to go to a charity.

       Now that the heiress had reached the required age, Vavasour received an invitation to form one of the same party with herself, at Brantham Hall, a country-house which still retained the good old custom of filling every nook and corner for Christmas.

       Lady Olivia Tedcastle, its owner and mistress, considered that she was only performing her duty towards the niece she had never before noticed, by thus bringing her into contact with the man fate ordained for her husband.

       But her plans were nearly frustrated: for when the delicately monogrammed envelope was first opened in the quarters of the Royal Riding Hussars at Shorncliffe, its recipient vowed that no power on earth should make him accept it.

       He was not going fortune-hunting to please any old women; he should be ashamed to do it. The girl might go to — well, anywhere, so long as he did not see her — and so on, and so on; till Fred Oldfield came in with his cheery, "Hullo, old chap!" and heard the whole story. He was very well off himself, with a good deal more heart than brain, which often made the responsibilities of being a rich eldest son weigh very heavily upon him. But, in this case, his inability to advise was about the best thing that could have happened, for he held his tongue until a good deal of the steam had been worked off by his friend. Then —

       "She may be very nice, you know," he suggested. "And —–"

       "Very nasty, too! I tell you I won't do it, Chips. If I am hard up, I'm a gentleman; and I'm not going like a miserly beggar after her money." And Vavasour drew himself up to his full height of six feet two inches, as if the debts a young cavalry officer may incur by overstepping the bounds of prudence are all to be paid by virtuous speeches of a like kind.

       Chips waited patiently till the storm had subsided, when he said meekly —

       "I was only going to remind you that — wouldn't it be fair to give the girl a chance of liking you? Because you see, the money goes away from her, if she does not marry you."

       "My goodness, Chips, I'd forgotten that! Was a man ever in such a fix?" He raged about a little longer, then suddenly turned: "Look here, old fellow, I've hit it! You'll come down with me, you know. Now don't say anything, because this precious old woman says I'm to bring a friend, as 'gentlemen are scarce.' And you shall go as Henry Vavasour, and I as Fred Oldfield. We'll just play them a trick?"

       It was Chips's turn to be surprised. He looked up at his tall friend, and down at his own neat proportions. "My dear Vavasour, I don't see how anybody in their senses could ever mistake you for me."

       "Chips, you're a donkey." Vavasour was in high good humour now. "How is anybody at Brantham to know which is me and which is you? They've never set eyes on either of us, and how can they possibly know?"

       "I don't see, though, what good it will do," returned the other doubtfully.

       "It 'll do this good. If Miss Culliner falls in love with me of her own accord, well and good. If, on the contrary, she likes you best, I'll come back to the barracks, and there's an end of the matter. But I never mean to marry her against her will."

       "I don't like it," murmured Chips; but he yielded, as he generally did, and the invitation was accepted in his hand-writing).

       A week later saw them driving up the long avenue at Brantham Hall in the pitch darkness of a winter's evening.

       Chips was nervous. On his usually bright face hung a cloud, large and heavy enough to blot out every particle of its customary sunshine. The little hussar was, in fact, very far removed from his normal condition of cheerfulness.

       "I'm sure something will happen," he murmured, from the depths of the comfortable brougham which had been sent to meet them.

       "What should happen?" quoth Vavasour, who was in the highest spirits. "I say, old chap, try and look a little less like going to a funeral than you did at the station; it's not complimentary to Miss Culliner."

       They had reached the door by this time, and as a flood of light shone out upon their darkness, Chips made a valiant effort, and, drawing himself together, actually conjured up the ghost of a smile with which to meet the pompous butler, who received them in the hall, and with whom in his confusion he nearly shook hands.

       That individual, however, was too much taken up with his own importance to notice the slip, and, having informed the gentlemen that "the ladies had gone to dress," passed them over to the care of a lesser dignitary to act as pilot to their rooms.

       Thence, some time during the next half-hour, our two friends descended to the drawing-room, where they found three ladies already assembled, together with the Rector of the parish, who had been called in to avoid an odd number.

       Lady Olivia, rising majestically to receive her guests, thinks she has mistaken the names, and passing over the small fair man in the foreground, who is blushing a deep, very deep pink over face and neck, holds out a hand to his companion, towering tall and self-possessed behind.

       "Mr. Vavasour, we are very pleased to see you."

       The pink in Chips's cheeks became if possible a shade darker, but Vavasour rose to the occasion.

       "I have not that honour," he answered with a very low bow. "Mr. Vavasour was good enough to bring me with him;" and, finishing his speech with a surreptitious poke in the back to Chips, the little hussar recovered sufficiently to murmur something about "Oldfield, my great friend," and Lady Olivia, turning to give him greeting, proceeds with her introductions —

       "My niece Miss Culliner; Miss Grant; Mr. Baines."

       The heiress is tall and dark. Vavasour hated dark women. He watches her sail into dinner on Chips's arm, and thinks the smooth, countless braids of brown hair round that shapely head cannot compare for one minute with the little soft, yellow curls bobbing along by his own shoulder, which they scarcely reach except when Miss Grant's roguish blue eyes are lifted.

       She was not shy; and during dinner told him that she hoped he has not put her down as a strong-minded female because her hair is short; for it is the result of a severe illness, and not to follow the so-called fashion.

       Whereupon Vavasour declared he preferred short hair, and, thinking it a good opportunity to gain information, asked —

       "You are one of Lady Olivia's pieces, too?"

       "Oh no!" the curls nodded merrily. "I'm only Miss Culliner's companion. She could not be alone in that great house. What would she do?"

       Vavasour decides that whatever may be the heiress's other faults she is generous. Though he could not have described what she had on, yet every glance at the little figure by his side told him that Miss Culliner's companion was well, in fact very well, dressed. Not a detail, from head to foot, denoted any lack of money.

       He only said, however, "Is the house very large?"

       "Very," she replied. "There are such big passages that I'm always getting lost in them. You know, I'm not very big."

       This is said with an appealing upward glance of the blue eyes, which made Vavasour feel inclined to tell her he would like to take care of her in that big house. But she continued —

       "I always tell Marion" (with a glance across at the heiress) "that she is just the right person for a big house. She's so stately, don't you think so? Now, I never could look dignified!"

       "You need not wish yourself different," Vavasour answered in a low voice. "But, excuse me, I did not know Miss Culliner's name was Marion. I heard — that is, my friend told me — it was Esmé."

       A very faint blush came into Miss Grant's cheeks as he first began, but she only laughed.

       "We 're both Esmé, only she hates it, so I call her by her second name. But, now tell me, is Mr. Vavasour always so shy?"

       For a minute he started. Then, remembering to whom his name belonged for the present, answered —

       "What, Chips shy? You wouldn't say so if you knew him."

       "Well, he doesn't seem very lively now," retorted Miss Grant. And following the direction of her eyes, Vavasour looked across the table.

       She was right. Anything less like the jubilant lover could scarcely be imagined than the unhappy Chips. Not one of his brother-officers would have recognised their bright mess-companion in the sedate, melancholy gentleman eating his dinner by the side of the heiress. A few spasmodic remarks about the weather was the only conversation wafted across the table to the other two, for Lady Olivia and the Rector were deep in soup-kitchens and coal-clubs.

       "Well?" asked Miss Grant.

       "I can't say he's looking his best," Vavasour admitted. "But look here, Miss Grant, don't you think it's enough to make a man miserable, being situated as he is?"

       "What, by the side of Miss Culliner?" she asked mischievously.

       "You know what I mean," he answered, trying to look reproachfully into the blue eyes, and failing utterly. "Isn't it enough to make a man feel a regular brute — I beg your pardon, but there's no other word — to know that he's been brought down for the express purpose of either getting a girl's money, or being the means of her losing it?"

       Nothing could be more demure than the way in which Miss Grant looked down at her plate.

       "Don't you think it's enough to make a girl feel a regular brute to know that the only way she can give a man back his lawful property is by marrying him, whether she will or no?"

       "You're too bad, Miss Grant!" Vavasour laughed in spite of himself. "I can't tell you how horrid I felt — I mean, old Chips felt, when he heard it."

       She gave one swift, inquiring glance up at him, but he did not notice it, nor the faintest possible smile with which she answered quietly —

       "I think Miss Culliner is much more to be pitied. Lady Olivia never took the slightest notice of her till a month ago, when it suddenly struck her that it was a duty to see her niece safely married. So here we came, to see and be seen!"

       There was a little ring of bitterness in the voice, which made Vavasour look, but he had no time to answer, for Lady Olivia rose, and the gentlemen were left to their wine.

       When they joined the ladies again in the drawing-room conversation was of necessity more general, with no chance of any confidences; but Vavasour managed, nevertheless, to get through a very fair amount of flirtation with Miss Grant before bed-time.

       He and Chips have a snug hour together in the smoking-room; during which he scolds the latter roundly, and declares that if he cannot behave more naturally he (Vavasour) will throw up the whole thing and go home: an announcement which does not add to the little hussar's chances of a peaceful night.

       They are to be very quiet for a week, Lady Olivia told them next morning; "indeed quite a family party" (with a meaning look at Chips, which brings a rosy hue to his fair cheeks), and then the house is to be quite full for a fortnight, to spend Christmas in the old-fashioned way. Meanwhile the young men are at liberty to please themselves; there was hunting twice a week, and they could arrange about shooting with the gamekeeper.

       Chips brightened visibly at the sound of hunting, for if there was one thing the little hussar loved better than another, it was a good run across country. He knew a horse, too, when he saw one, and could ride well. Vavasour always declared afterwards that the turning-point of Chips's life was the minute he first saw Miss Culliner on her beautiful bright bay.

       Miss Grant rode a lively little Arab, which coquetted about much like its mistress, who, however, had him under perfect control. But Vavasour was forced unwillingly to admit to himself that an ordinary onlooker would unquestionably have given first prize for the "general turn-out" to Miss Culliner. She was a very fine woman, and her grand, somewhat ponderous figure looked its best in the dark-blue habit which fitted its owner as well as the glossy coat did the thoroughbred she rode.

       The meet was the utmost limit Lady Olivia would allow for the young ladies, and Vavasour was not the only one who found the two miles all too short.

       Honest Chips felt a qualm of conscious guilt as the two friends rode home after a fair day's sport.

       "That's a fine girl, old fellow," he said, following the train of his own thoughts. "I don't half like going on in this way. She's not so bad, and she can ride, too!"

       "I shall want my wife to do something else besides ride," answered Vavasour lazily.

       "Well, Miss Culliner's pretty good all round, I think," began Chips, warming to his subject. "She talks well and —–"

       "All right, Chips: if you're satisfied, so am I."

       And he was. Not for one minute would Vavasour put out a hand to stop the course of events during that week. He had come down determined to let things go their own way; and when it became perfectly natural for Mr. Oldfield and Miss Culliner to be thrown together by the unsuspecting Lady Olivia, he was nothing loth to "put up with" the humble companion.

       If the truth is told, the lady did not show much reluctance either. If Miss Grant was pretty, she was also, I must confess, a sad flirt. Lady Olivia — who only saw her in the drawing-room, when, demure as a mouse, Miss Grant would sit down with her work-basket and stitch away as if her life depended upon it — considered her a very "proper person" to be a companion to her niece. Perhaps she would have thought differently had she seen the blue eyes when Miss Grant sang plaintive old ballads after dinner; or took out luncheon to the gentlemen when they shot over coverts near the house.

       It really was a very good thing for all parties that the week was no longer. For Chips, having recovered his first confusion, blossomed out into the lively hussar his friends knew so well, and was winning golden opinions from everybody. Perchance, a certain walk and talk he had had one day in the garden with Miss Grant (when every one believed him away hunting and she writing letters) may have had something to do with it; but who knows?

       Fortunately not Vavasour, or it would have added fuel to the fire which was first lighted on that identical evening.

       Lady Olivia had been reading out the names of the guests she expected, while they sat round the cosy five-o'clock tea-table after an afternoon's skating; and coming to a certain Sir Richard Wargrove, stopped.

       "I think you know Sir Richard, my dear?" turning to Miss Culliner.

       Vavasour, in the act of handing cake to Miss Grant, caught her quick glance across at the heiress; and almost immediately the latter answered —

       "Yes, a little. When is he coming?"

       "As soon as he can leave home. Is he nice?"

       "There's not much in him." It was Miss Grant who answered, and Lady Olivia looked up over her glasses.

       "I did not know you knew him," she said stiffly.

       "Miss Grant saw him when she was with me, Auntie: he's very nice, but not particularly clever," put in the heiress hastily. And Lady Olivia, seeing that Miss Grant had once more blushingly subsided into the position befitting her, graciously allowed the subject to be turned by Vavasour, who began asking countless questions about every other person expected.

       But the first minute he was free he came to a chair at her side, and, under pretence of holding a skein of wool for her to wind, asked:

       "What is Sir Richard like?"

       "Well!" — the blue eyes were kept demurely down, and the little white hands went swiftly to and fro amongst the wool, making Vavasour long to touch them — "I think he has two eyes and a nose, and —–"

       "Don't you ever talk seriously?" he interrupted roughly, with a sudden jerk of the skein which broke the wool. Whereupon Miss Grant sent him away, saying he was too clumsy: and he departed in high dudgeon to the other end of the room.

       "Little flirt," he muttered to himself. "I expect she's had some nonsense with that beastly baronet herself, and doesn't want it found out." Then he began wishing he could go back, but was too proud to make the first step.

       After that, the house filled rapidly, and by Christmas Day it was quite full. The obnoxious baronet had not appeared, being detained at home. Chips timidly consulted Vavasour about the desirability of giving Miss Culliner a present.

       "They'll expect it, won't they, under the circumstances?" It was wonderful how soon he had learned his part!

       "Of course they will," answered Vavasour promptly, and after a long discussion sent Chips away in a state of blissful delight, with repeated assurances that it would in no way hurt his feelings; as a proof of which he sat down immediately to think if he could not manage to give Miss Grant something without offence.

       Of course it was nothing to compare with Chips's gorgeous bracelet cunningly ornamented by two horse-shoes interwoven in pearls and diamonds; but Vavasour felt amply repaid on Christmas morning when Miss Grant found the dainty gold locket with its blue forget-me-nots on her plate.

       "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Oldfield, for your lovely present; you shouldn't have wasted your money on me."

       This was a whispered aside at the breakfast table, in a not too steady voice; and there were tears — yes, actually tears — in the eyes which raised themselves to his. She knew perfectly well that money was not plentiful with him, for in a moment of confidence he had told her exactly what his prospects were, and she had whispered back that her only home was in the old castle with Miss Culliner; which sent him to bed to dream of love in a cottage, and make reckless determinations to marry only for love; in spite of the possibility of the heiress losing all her wealth by taking the wrong man. "And even if that does happen," urged our philosopher, "old Chips has enough for both of them!"

       It was hardly possible that so many people could be gathered in one house without wishing for a ball: and Lady Olivia had to submit to having her rooms first dismantled and then decorated according to the taste of the younger members of the party.

       "Sir Richard will be here, to-night," Miss Grant told Vavasour from the bottom of the steps up which she was handing him the last wreath. They were alone, putting the finishing touches to the dancing-room (while every one else was out in the hall), and Vavasour came down from his lofty perch before answering.

       "You won't give him the first dance?" he pleaded.

       She looked up mischievously. Do you suppose Sir Richard would ask me before any one else?"

       He would if he —–" began Vavasour in a low, passionate voice; but just at that moment Chips bounded in, noisily demanding a hammer, and followed by other workers to help in the search, blissfully unconscious of the scene they were interrupting.

       But while he dressed for the ball that evening Vavasour made many excellent resolutions. He no longer disguised from himself the fact that he was foolishly — nay, madly, in love with this penniless girl, whose "face was her fortune"; and marry her he would, even if it involved giving up his dearly loved regiment. "I shall sell out, pay my debts, and settle down comfortably," he determined. "She won't want luxuries, for she said as much. We'll have our fun to-night, and I won't say a word: but to-morrow put my fate to the touch, and the heiress may go and —– be hanged!"

       With which charitable conclusion he went downstairs, where the first sight of Miss Grant in her white dress and blue forget-me-nots nearly put his latest determination out of his head. Had they been alone, I think he would have proposed to her then and there.

       But if she looked prettier than ever, she was also more mischievous. Nothing could persuade her to give Vavasour the first dance.

       "I'm not going to move till the second one," she said; and he was obliged to retire with the gloomy determination of never letting her out of his sight till that one came.

       He stood against the wall in moody silence, watching her every movement; and she, though talking and helping Lady Olivia, seemed to be watching the door.

       Presently Vavasour noticed a tall, fair young man come in, and his hostess's greeting.

       "Ah, Sir Richard, better late than never!" Then a few inquiries about his journey in a lower tone, and her voice again became audible. "The people here will be strangers to you, but I believe you know my niece;" and she turned to meet some one else, and the baronet passed on.

       Was it accidental, or why did Miss Grant cross the doorway at that identical moment? Of course Sir Richard saw her, and equally of course stopped to shake hands. Vavasour could not hear the words, but he saw the girl's face flush brightly while she apparently answered some question very low; then the baronet gave her his arm, and they walked away together.

       That was why she would not dance! Vavasour ground his teeth with rage. His jealous eyes followed them across the room; but, contrary to his expectation, instead of joining the valsers, they turned into the conservatory, at the farther end, and were lost to view.

       In his first moment of passion he determined to go away and leave the ball; but on second considerations be took a savage delight in revenging himself by making her keep her promise.

       "She sha'n't quite make a fool of me," he muttered grimly, as he stalked across the room at the close of the first dance, looking more like an executioner going to justice than a gentleman in search of his partner.

       The unfortunate victim did not look at all guilty, sitting laughing on a low ottoman; and the minute she saw Vavasour's cloudy face her love of teasing was roused.

       "This is our dance," he began stiffly. "And —–"

       "Is it?" she asked innocently. "Are you quite sure?"

       "Quite. You need not trouble to look, Miss Grant; my memory is very good."

       "Really? But I should like to make quite sure," and he had to wait while she went through an elaborate display of finding her programme, and looking it carefully through.

       "I think you're right," she said condescendingly; and with a parting nod to Sir Richard, which made Vavasour grind his teeth afresh, she took his arm.

       He was too angry to begin the conversation, and they walked in silence into the other room. Miss Grant took a sidelong look at the frowning face above her.

       "Do you know, Mr. Oldfield," she said sweetly, "if you look so very cross, I shall be afraid to dance with you!"

       "Haven't I reason to look cross?" he asked, relenting, and looking down with an expression Miss Grant found it difficult to meet.

       A little flush came into her cheeks, but the next minute she looked up with the most innocent face. "I don't see why you should be cross, I haven't danced at all yet!"

       "No, but you waited for that that man, and sat out with him all the time."

       "Isn't it natural I should want to talk to an old friend? You are very silly to mind that."

       "I know I am," he answered hastily; "but I mind anything you do."

       The flush deepened, even to her neck and brow; and Vavasour could have declared her lips trembled if the voice that answered had not been doubly full of teasing.

       "Do you know, Mr. Oldfield, it's not at all becoming to you to frown? It makes you look as ugly as — as your name."

       "What's the matter with my name?" He had softened down before, but now fired up again.

       "Well," coaxingly, "you can't say it's very pretty, can you, now? Not half so nice as Mr. Vavasour's."

       Vavasour bit his lip hard. The temptation to tell her was strong. His eyes wandered unconsciously to Chips, sailing serenely round the room with the heiress; and then he bent down and whispered very low, "Perhaps I shall make you like my name some day." The next minute they were gliding away to the plaintive strains of Venetia, making him feel he could go on thus for ever if he could always have the little golden head in such close proximity to his own. All the rest of the evening be was blindly, idiotically happy, for Miss Grant was particularly sweet and gracious; and it was well Lady Olivia was too busy to notice how often her niece's companion danced with one gentleman.

       Of course the ball was a success. It could hardly fail to be otherwise, with perfect music and floor, supper from Gunter's, and every one determined to dance till dawn.

       Yet the four people who came down first on the following morning did not look as if their late dissipation had agreed with them. The heiress's pale cheeks and heavy eyes contrasted strongly with the fitful colour in Miss Grant's cheeks, as the two girls made their way to the breakfast-room. Chips, the picture of misery, followed at a distance, but, stopping at the library, shut himself and Vavasour therein, and related his tale of woe.

       On the previous evening he had offered his heart and hand to the heiress, and she had refused him. That was bad enough, he averred, but the reason was worse. Vavasour listened to his detailed account of the latter in ominous silence, his face growing paler with every word; but when it was finished he rose, and only saying "I'm very sorry, Chips," led the way to the breakfast-room; the little hussar following in a state of abject doubt as to what his friend's set face might forebode.

       Miss Grant's voice was speaking earnestly as they opened the door. "I shall never forgive myself if you do, Marion." But at sight of the two gentlemen she stopped, and, colouring vividly, drew back almost behind the heiress.

       Vavasour did not hesitate a moment. He walked straight up to the latter, and with a faint attempt at a smile said very distinctly —

       "Chips has been telling me about last night, Miss Grant, and I have come to ask you not to make this miserable business any worse by visiting my sins on his head."

       The ex-heiress flushed darkly. "I — I can't," she began brokenly, covering her face with her hands; then recovering herself, she raised her head proudly: "I told Mr. —–" ("Oldfield," supplied Vavasour gravely) "my reasons last night. I am very, very sorry I ever consented to change places with Miss Culliner; besides which, I am absolutely penniless, and he cannot wish to have a beggar for his wife."

       "Excuse me, Miss Grant, replied Vayasour gently, "but your reasons are really none at all. We are much more to blame for having deceived you; and anyhow," he added, with a wintry smile, "if you were really Miss Culliner, you would forfeit your wealth by marrying Chips, so that he would have had a poor wife after all!"

       She murmured something about its not being right, but Vavasour suggested they should talk it over in the library, and in an incredibly short space of time they had vanished.

       There was an awkward silence as the door closed upon them, which the real Miss Culliner tried to break by poking the fire vigorously. "It's very cold."

       No answer followed this novel remark; and looking up she saw Vavasour's stern face above her.

       "You have had your revenge," he said, "and I don't blame you one bit, but I wish it had been delayed a few hours. Last night, when I believed you penniless, I determined to sell out, pay my debts, and then offer you a home — humble, it is true, but rich in everything my love could supply."

       Miss Culliner kept her eyes well down; because there was more in them than she wished this angry young man to see just yet.

       "I don't see why you should be so cross this morning because you see a chance of not giving up your regiment."

       He started, and then looked down at the bent head, while a hoarse laugh broke from his lips.

       "I know you haven't a very high opinion of me," he said bitterly; "but you might acknowledge I'm not quite such an ill-bred cur as to propose to a girl the very minute I know she has money."

       The blue eyes came up then, blazing with righteous indignation.

       "You needn't reproach me with my wealth! I always have maintained it was the most unjust will that ever existed; and there was no more harm in my changing place with Miss Grant than in you changing place with Mr. Oldfield!"

       "Haven't I said so?" he returned more quietly. "I repeat again, you were fully justified in doing as you pleased. But I only want to make you understand that no power on earth shall induce me to make you the offer this morning which I fully intended doing."

       Miss Culliner's lips curled scornfully, albeit they trembled.

       "I suppose you think I ought to make it instead? But this isn't Leap year; and," with a sudden burst of anger, "I sha'n't." She walked to the window to hide her tears.

       "I never thought anything of the kind," he answered. "I shall go away to-day and never bother you again, and you can marry whom you choose." He strode to the window exactly opposite hers, and stood there looking out.

       In about two minutes Miss Culliner dried her eyes, and peeped cautiously round. Did he really mean it, this refractory lover of hers? His back looked very unpromising, but — suppose he did?

       I am quite shy at having to relate what followed; but remember, fair readers, if you please, that I have already told you she was a flirt; and, moreover, she was very much in love with him.

       Vavasour was just meditating a dignified retreat, when footsteps began tiptoing across the room from the opposite window. Too proud to turn round, he remained gazing stolidly out at the snow, which perhaps accounted for his not feeling the very light touch on his arm.

       It was not repeated; for the hand was withdrawn, and a head substituted in its place. A little soft, yellow head, with a wreath of curls, which leaned against his shoulder; while two blue eyes, with a suspicion of teardrops in them, looked up to plead more eloquently than the red lips.

       "Please don't go, Henry."

       What could a man do but turn round and take her in his arms to vow that nothing in the world should ever make him leave her again?

       Miss Culliner had great difficulty in releasing herself. "Let me go, Henry, I want to tell you something."

       "What is it?" He held her out at arm's length, enjoying her confusion. "You little darling! you're the most beautiful creature I ever saw!"

       "Don't be silly, sir," she retorted through her blushes. "I wanted to tell you that the reason I waited for Sir Richard last night was because he was the only person who knew me, and I was afraid he'd let out my secret. That's all."

       "Is it? I could forgive a hundred Sir Anybodys this morning," began Vavasour fondly; changing into a muttered "Confound it!" as the door opened.

       But it was only Chips, with a face like the summer sun, who tried to retreat when he saw what was going on.

       "Beg pardon, old fellow: I didn't know —–

       "Come in, Chips; we want your congratulations; and only hope you're as happy as we are?"

       "I couldn't be happier," asserted Chips. Whereupon the young ladies kissed each other; and Esmé asked, "Did Mr. Oldfield tell you I guessed your secret the first evening you were here?"

       "I couldn't help it, Vavasour," began Chips apologetically. "Miss Culliner got it all out of me one day in the garden: and —–"

       "You never could keep a secret, Chips," asserted his friend.

       "No, that's' what made you look so miserable," chimed in Esmé merrily. "You were ten times happier after I made you confess!"

       And then, of course, every one came pouring in to breakfast; and the lovers had to partake of that very prosaic meal, like ordinary mortals.
 

       Lady Olivia could not have been very angry when the truth was explained to her: because the Easter violets and primroses were in great request for a very pretty double wedding which took place from her house not three months later.

       The only fault pretty Mrs. Vavasour can find with her husband is that he never will confess she had to do all the love-making, and he did — NOTHING AT ALL.

MABEL F. WILSON.       

(THE END)