and they met many of the country people in their
best and most theatrical dress, hurrying to have
their little innocent enjoyment. The three
walked on together, and Lucy said she was
now so happy. Mr. Dacres's companionship,
however, was but of a fitful sort, for as they
passed a little auberge he complained of fatigue,
and, greatly admiring "the quiet peace and
innocence" of the spot, would protest he must
have just "two seconds" on the bench under the
tree, and would pick them up at the next field.
This he certainly did, much more exhilarated.
In truth, the two lovers—they may wear that
old-fashioned official name—did not miss him.
They were busy with that one absorbing topic,
which for such a pair has a vast height, depth,
and width, that embraces the whole world.

"I am so happy today," said Lucy, dancing
rather than walking, as she spoke. "I feel as
if I were going to enjoy myself. Ah! What a
delightful world it is! So kind—so amiable —so
pretty! What do they mean—our clergymen—
by saying it is hollow and false, and all that?"

He smiled, and then sighed. "I used to
think so too, and I used to be timorous for the
future. I dreaded what might come; but now
I have learned to enjoy the present, and shut
my eyes to whatever may come."

"Haven't you heard papa talking of that?"
she went on, with animation. "He says we don't
half discount all our amusements. He puts it
so funnily: 'Twenty per cent, old pictures,
twenty more, lumps of coal, fifty per cent in
poisonous wine or an old gig: these representing
our sorrows, there remains only ten per
cent in real cash for our joys.' Papa has such
droll fancies."

"Ever so many of those bills have been
discounted for me," he said, sadly. "There is one
nearly due now, and only a week or so to run— "

"You are not thinking of that?" said Lucy,
anxiously. "You don't mind what papa says—
it is all his love, his interest for me. I under-
stand you, and know what is on your mind.
Men cannot understand each other so well."

"But you do not, dearest, I fear," he said,
"and you cannot, either. I dare not tell you
everything which I ought. And yet what right
have I to ask you to take anything on trust?"

"What right?" said Lucy, seriously. "Do
you mean that I would not accept your saying
you had a great and necessary reason without
knowing it?"

"Ah, yes, Lucy; but it is not fair to you, it
is not loyal, it is not honourable. Yet what can
I do? I vow here to Heaven I am helpless!
You know how I love you, and what I would
do for you; and yet what must I seem, what
must you think of me, if I am obliged to—-"

"Do you whatever you think right," said
Lucy, enthusiastically. "Whatever you must
do, I can trust, I can believe in you, and can
believe, too, there is some necessary and honourable
reason."

"I knew that," he said, looking at her with
infinite sadness. "And if I was forced, as I
may be, to leave this," he added, slowly, "for
two years or more— for there is no
knowing—"

Lucy's face fell.

"Ah, am I asking too much?"

"No," she said, passionately, "it was not
that. But not to see you all that time."

He smiled, and looked down fondly on her.
"No matter what the discount, as your father
says, I am content. Let me enjoy the present,
and not trouble myself with what may never
happen. But whatever takes place, whatever
step I am driven to, I may trust that you will
still believe me at least, that you will not
think the worst, but at least wait; and, as I
live, time will clear all up!"

Lucy looked a little anxious, but her bright
face was clear in a moment. "I promise— I
swear," she said, and put her hand in his,
"I engage. After all, there is no merit in
confidence where there is nothing to doubt."

"Yet we shall be so happy," he said, with
exultation. "We shall enjoy ourselves today."

Now came up Mr. Dacres, trolling to himself
about the "Lass of Killiney," a lady whose
charms he sang with much feeling and many
trills and turns.

            "Through night and its shadows,
              Through mornings so shiny,
            I'm mournfully seeking
               The lass of Killiney—
                                      Kill-i-i-ney,
                The bee-you-tiful lass of Killiney."

A woodcutter in sabots looked after him with
grave amazement, not at the singing, but at
the mournful tones and pathetic shaking of
the head.

"Well, my chick-a-biddies— how the dust
flies! The little cogs and springs of my voice
want oiling a little. Ah, if you saw me at the
assize-dinner, when the cloth was drawn, and
that old raven Jackson, Q.C., croaks out that he
wants the 'Lass of Killiney!'  I make her roll up
the table and down again. I give her to 'em with
a vengeance. But I can't do these feats here.
The human voice, sir, must be fattened and
made rich, as you would cattle on its native
pasture. Yet, take me as I am, Lulu—rusty,
gone to seed—hungering and thirsty for a
draught of my own native air, you might back
Papa Harco against the best shouter of 'em all
in their best caffy concert."

They reached the little village in something
over an hour's time. The sound of the drum
and flute directed them to a field close by,
which was all bustle, frolic, motion, and shifting
colours. There were tents, and booths, and
waggons, after the English race-course pattern;
but the whole had a gayer and more theatrical
air.

"Save us, Lulu, just look at the merry-go-
rounds! Why, they're going by steam!"

To see half a dozen small wooden horses,
of the very gayest skins, with long-legged and
perhaps corpulent riders, flying round after
each other at a headlong speed, each taking
off a small ring on his "marlingspike" as