He told me so the other day. I'll run and
tell him, and make him promise not to do it
any more."

Well, I declare, I saw her push the sweet
child from her, firing up as if she had been a
woman of twenty.

"Don't speak to me in that way," she said.
"I don't want your help, you poor child. I
can do without it." Here came a little
scornful laugh. "I dare say Cousin Richard loves
me, though he doesn't set me on his knee
and pet me like a baby."

With that she flounced away, leaving poor
Miss Cicely standing there, with her head
hanging down, and looking after her quite
scared.

Would you think it? The proud little lady
was jealous. It was queer, the notion of such
a thing in one so young; but so it actually
was, as I afterwards came to find out.

Poor Miss Cicely was sadly distressed at
finding her so cold, and could not make out
what was at the bottom of it; however, they
were soon friends again. Meantime, Mr.
Richard stayed on over a month, until his
time grew very near, riding over, every day,
to Arbour Court for reasons of his own.
One day came down to us, as usual, Miss
Cicely, to ask for her loaf, " And," said she,
as soon as she came in, "dear, good Mr.
Dipchurch, when I have my own large, big
house, I shall have plenty of bread to give
away, and you shall take care of it, and have
a great room to yourself."

"I thank you, Miss Cicely," I said, "but
I fancy we shall have to wait a few years
before we get into the big house."

"Not so very, very long, Mr. Dipchurch,"
she said, putting back her yellow curls, with
one of her roguish looks, "not so very
long—"

"Pretty well, I think," I said. "Say ten
years, at the least."

"Listen, good Mr. Dipchurch. I have
such a great, little secret; oh! such a
wonderful secret," she said, opening her little
eyes; "but you won't tell any one?"

"Trust me, Miss Cicely, for that."

"Well," she said, "dear Cousin Richard—
you know Cousin Richard?"

"Well, I think so, Miss Cicely."

"Well, dear Cousin Richard says, as soon
as he comes home from the wars, that I am
to be his little wife, and we are to live
together in a big house."

"You don't say so," I said, pretending to
open my eyes with astonishment.

"I do, I do!" she was clapping her hands
and giving one of her merry laughs, "he has
told me so over and over again."

"Take care," I said, "he doesn't meet with
some beautiful lady in foreign parts—a handsome
princess, who might fall in love with
him when he was taken prisoner, and marry
him for good and all."

She turned very grave and thoughtful on
this.

"Do you think so really, Mr. Dipchurch?"

"Nothing more likely, Miss Cicely; these
military gentlemen do it every day."

She began counting on her fingers, and
looking on the ground, and then very
wistfully at me.

"I must speak to Cousin Richard," she
said, taking up the hem of her skirt, and
plaiting it as if she were going to sew.

"I think that would be the best way," I
said, looking wise. "In fact, it would be
more desirable to put it off altogether until
he came back."

"Do you think so?" said she again, still
plaiting.

"Well," I said, "it's purely a matter of
convenience, but I think it would be better.
Then there's your cousin, Lady Alice, I fancy
he has promised her, too."

"O, no!" said Miss Cicely; "Cousin
Richard would not do that."

"Nothing more likely, Miss Cicely," I
said.

She seemed wonderfully confounded at this
notion, and fell to thinking it over and over.
Then, putting her hands to her little head,
she called out suddenly:

"O! dear Mr. Dipchurch! such a strange
pain in my head! such an odd feel!"

I was frightened a bit at what she said, for
you don't hear of children of her age
complaining of such things, and it was in that
way what she had before began. At that
moment came by her Spanish cousin, looking
stately, as usual. Miss Cicely  runs out and
stops her, putting her arms about her.

"Darling cousin," she says, "good Mr.
Dipchurch tells me that Cousin Richard has
promised to make you his little wife when
you grow up and the wars are over—-"

"And if he has?" says the Donna, looking
very wickedly at her; "hasn't he the
right?"

"Only," says Miss Cicely very gently, "I
thought I was to be his little wife."

"You!" says Lady Alice; "you! you little
little child! What, you a wife for Cousin
Richard!"

"I know it," says Miss Cicely, hanging
down her head; "but I thought when I grew
to be tall—but you are much more
beautiful!"

The Spanish Donna laughed scornfully.

"Did Cousin Richard promise you?"

"I thought so."

"Good!" says Lady Alice, getting into
one of her fits; "you are a wicked, deceitful
girl—don't dare to speak to me again.''

She flounced away in a fury, and all the
rest of that day Miss Cicely was very silent
and dejected, keeping much to herself, and
talking a deal to her dog Pincher. Next
morning, which was a fine frosty one, with
the sun shining out, she came running to me
before breakfast to tell me something.

"O! Mr. Dipchurch!" she cried, "I have
made up my mind" (her little mind, sweet