Miss Bell? " said he, observing Mabel with a
bunch of carnations in her hand.

"I dare say Miss Bell likes the gas, too,"
said the picture-dealer, " or, at all events, the
incense that mounts to her nostrils with the
flare of the float. The breath of public
applause is very sweet."

"I think,' said Mabel, with her shy smile,
"that the flowers are better."

"Come, Mabel," cried Penelope, "be honest;
I used to cite you as one of the few truth-
telling people I knew. Tell the truth, now,
you do love the incense of praise and applause.
We all love it. It's only the folks who can't
get any that are allowed to pretend to despise
it, and that is not your case, at all events. You
do think the incense a sweet thing."

"Yes," answered Mabel, slowly; and then,
after a minute's pause, she laid one hand on
Penelope's shoulder, and gently touching her
lips with the rich fragrant carnation that she
held in the other, added, in a low voice, " but,
still I think the flowers are better."

"One can't live upon perfume, though,
Mabel," said Jack, laughingly, " any more
than one can live upon—upon love or
moonshine, both very charming things in their way!
Whereas the public approval translates itself
into very tangible coin of the realm."

"Jack talking worldliness and common sense
is a delicious spectacle," cried Mabel, " when I
know so well that he would not allow all the
bright gold that ever was minted to weigh
against the lightest wish of any one he really
loved! " Looking up, she caught Clement's
eyes fixed upon her, and dropped her own
with a bright flush.

"Mrs. Saxelby," said Mr. M'Culloch, " before
it gets too dark to see it, will you walk round
my little place? I have some rather choice
shrubs down yonder, and ferns—I don't know
whether you care about ferns—— "

"I do! " said Penelope; " may I come
too?"

"Of course, my dear Miss Charlewood.
Allow me. There. Now, Charlewood, if you
will give Miss Bell your arm. You two fellows
are going to have cigars, I see." And Mr.
M'Culloch walked away with Mrs. Saxelby and
Penelope, leaving Clement and Mabel to follow.
Jack and the picture-dealer remained to smoke
under the verandah.

Clement stood for a moment by Mabel's side.

"Will you come?" he said, hesitatingly.

She touched his offered arm lightly with her
hand, and they walked on together. For some
paces they proceeded in silence; then Mabel
spoke:

"I am so, so glad that your trouble about
Walter is all at an end."

"Thank you. I hope, if we can get him
abroad, he may do well yet."

"And I am so very glad, too, that—that—
the calumnies against you have been traced to
their source. When Jack told me of the letters,
I was so indignant—so grieved!"

"You are very good."

There was another pause. The hand on his
arm trembled as Mabel said, at length,

"Have you not forgiven me, Clement?"

It was the first time she had ever called him
by that name, and the sound of it, uttered by
her voice, thrilled him to the heart. He would
have given the world to take her in his arms
and fold her in the shelter of his great love.
He would have given the world, but not what
he prized above all—his self-respect. No; he
loved her so much, she was so dear to him,
because he " loved honour more." He answered,
steadily:

"I told you, Mabel, that I had nothing to
forgive you. What pain you once caused me
is past and over, and was given unwillingly."

"God knows it was given unwittingly.
But——"

"Let me say one word; it shall be the last
with which I will trouble you about my own
private feelings. The other day, when you
came to our house on an errand of kindliness
and friendship, I was hurried into saying words
that should not have been spoken. I had been
harassed out of all self-command, and the
unexpected sight of you opened an old wound."

"You said what you did not mean, then?"
she murmured, half withdrawing her hand from
its resting-place on his arm.

"No, Mabel. Even to spare you pain, I
cannot tell you a lie. I meant then what I
mean now, and what I shall mean all my life
long. But, nevertheless, I should not have
uttered such words to you. To what end
should I have uttered them? Forget them,
Mabel, and be my friend again, as you were
in the old days, if you can."

"But I cannot."'

"I am grieved to hear it, but it must be
borne like the rest."

"Do you know why I cannot be your friend
again, as in the old days? Clement, Clement,
you called me proud. I believe I am so by
nature. My pride once hurt you, and,
perhaps, blinded me to my own feelings. I do not
know. I was very young. I had never thought
of—of—your seeking me in that way, and I had
received a warning which cut my girlish spirit
to the quick, that I must not aspire to the
honour you might be led to offer me. But,
Clement—dear Clement,—I lay down before
you my old pride—I throw it at your feet.
Those words, that you bid me to forget, filled
me with joy and gratitude. I have been
learning all this time—learning by absence—by the
jealous pang at my heart when I thought you
cared for another—by the yearning to help and
comfort you in your great trouble—I have been
learning that I love you, Clement—that I love
you very dearly."

For one moment, in the ecstasy of hearing
her speak those words, he caught her to his
breast and kissed her. But almost directly he
released her from his clasp, and stepped apart
from her.

"Noblest, dearest Mabel," he said, " I have
no right to take advantage of your generous