a good deal of fun goes on here in its way.
There are the queerest, most comical set of souls
in the universe. It's worth the while of a man
like you, Mr. Beaufort, coming here for a time,
to see a bit of character. I run over here
myself, now and again, to see my girl and wife,
and I find it impayable, for the stories and all
that sort of thing I pick up as I go. Capital
schools here, too. My little girl is just
leaving Miss Pringle's, where she has been well
grounded, I assure you. Quite a finish, you
know, you don't get at home."

Now came up the Dalrymples. "Very nice,
correct people. I was telling you of them, you
know. Perfectly safe to know. Not exactly
reduced; but, a—-Mrs. Dalrymple, let
me—-" And the form was gone through
with all the solemnities. The faded lady, in
the sweeping shawl, seemed to find comfort in
the good-natured, all but homely manner
of Mrs. Dalrymple, and "took to her" at
once.

"'Pon my word," said Mr. Blacker, looking
round with pride at his work, "our party has
increased!"

It had. The commons of the place looked at
and followed them with fresh curiosity. Mr.
Blacker waving his arms and describing, with
his head very much back; the two matrons
already confidential; the Beaufort daughter
and Mr. Ernest Beaufort keeping aloof
contemptuously from the other ladies; and our
Lucy almost ignored. Mr. Dacres was soaring
up fast into his best circuit vein, and, with his
face mantling with joviality, was telling "a
capital thing," taking in the ladies right and
left, and even those behind him. He delighted
in new people and new audiences, and was now
quite at home.

Mr. West and Lucy had dropped behind.
Both felt they were outside all this. They
were of the class of natures which are too
delicately organised to "hit it off" with strangers,
and to be at home in a moment with all the
world.

"I cannot endure that man," Mr. West said
to her. "He jars on me at every turn. It
is he who makes this place worse than it
would be."

"Mr. Blacker?" said Lucy; "surely there is
no harm in him?"

"Perhaps not," said he, smiling. "I always
think that the people with no harm in them, do
the most harm."

"Oh," said Lucy, sadly, "it seems to me
every day, now that I have done with the
school, to be worse. It is a dreadful place, and
I wish we were far away out of it. Papa and
we all would be so much happier established
at some quiet, sweet, little English country
place."

They were a long way behind now. West
looked round hastily. "And why should this not
be?" he said. "It is indeed no place for you
or for him. The very air is corrupted. Their
false patience, their miserable acting, the crowd
of knaves—the men and women that herd
together here—sicken me. It is like living in
a moral pestilence."

"But you stay here?" said Lucy, quickly.
"You can be free if you like. A philosopher
like you!" But, as soon as the words escaped
her, she recollected and coloured.

He said hurriedly, "Perhaps I cannot, though
I ought, indeed. My poor sister would rather
be away a million times. She is pining for
home. I myself loathe the place; and yet I
stay—selfishly, I know, but still I cannot help
it. Can you guess the reason?"

Lucy looked at him with full and trustful
eyes. "Well—I—-" she answered, "I
do know it."

"And you call it folly, selfishness,
absurdity, a foolish dream?"

She paused a moment, and then said softly,
"No, I do not think so, since you have asked
me. Far from it."

"Your father and I," he went on very
quickly, "had a conversation to-day. I told
him what has long been on my mind. Now let
me speak plainly for myself. Things will grow
worse and worse. This is but the beginning.
Your poor father is helpless, and I have met
enough of men of his life to know that the
troubles he has passed through are but a hint
of what are to come. In such a prospect I
think of you—of what is to become of you later,
and of him. Friends will fall away, miseries of
all sorts will set in; then you must have a
friend. Some one to turn to and protect you—
and him," he added.

"I have thought of all this; but you cannot
think me so mercenary as to suppose I would let
such motives influence me. No. You must
consider I am only a mere school-girl, and that I
hardly know how to form a judgment on things
of the world. This has come on me very suddenly.
So that you must not think my hesitation
is owing to any disinclination or dislike. Will
you agree to this? Give me a little time to
accustom myself to the idea, to appreciate it as I
ought; and I assure you, at the same moment,
that I cannot say how I admire your talent,
and virtues, and—I can tell you, too—that there
is no one else, as, indeed, you may guess, whom
I care for."

Mr. West's face was growing brighter and
younger every moment. "These are words I
never dared to dream of listening to. I understand
it all. I see perfectly what you are thinking of.
Any time—weeks, months, years, if you like.
It is only natural. And I shall add this condition,
and, if you will let me, insist on it. As
this step would, I most firmly believe, be all
for your happiness and comfort, so I should
wish, for the same view, that you should not
consider yourself at all bound, but shall be free
to change when you please. As you say," he
added, smiling, "you have only just left Miss
Pringle's. You have to see something of the
world and its gaieties—even such gaieties as
we have here. You must be free. Who knows
what may come in your way? No, I am more
than satisfied. And if you still think the same