back to Spanish Town at once won’t hurt any one—for, to tell the truth, I have had enough of this work.”

“Why, Maurice, you were in such a hurry to come.”

“The more fool I; and so now I am in a hurry to go away.  Don’t notice it to anybody.”

Miss Jack looked in his face and saw that he was really wretched; and she knew the cause of his wretchedness.

“Don’t go yet, Maurice,” she said; and then added with a tenderness that was quite uncommon with her, “Go to her, Maurice, and speak to her openly and freely, once for all; you will find that she will listen then.  Dear Maurice, do, for my sake.”

He made no answer, but walked away, roaming sadly by himself among the trees.  “Listen!” he exclaimed to himself.  “Yes, she will alter a dozen times in as many hours.  Who can care for a creature that can change as she changes?”  And yet he could not help caring for her.

As he went on, climbing among rocks, he again came upon the sound of voices, and heard especially that of Captain Ewing.  “Now, Miss Leslie, if you will take my hand you will soon be over all the difficulty.”  And then a party of seven or eight, scrambling over some stones, came nearly on the level on which he stood, in full view of him; and leading the others were Captain Ewing and Miss Leslie.

He turned on his heel to go away, when he caught the sound of a step following him, and a voice saying, “Oh, there is Mr. Cumming, and I want to speak to him;” and in a minute a light hand was on his arm.

“Why are you running away from us?” said Marian.

“Because—oh, I don’t know.  I am not running away.  You have your party made up, and I am not going to intrude on it.”

“What nonsense!  Do come now; we are going to this wonderful grotto.  I thought it so ill-natured of you, not joining us at dinner.  Indeed you know you had promised.”

He did not answer her, but he looked at her—full in the face, with his sad eyes laden with love.  She half understood his countenance, but only half understood it.

“What is the matter, Maurice?” she said.  “Are you angry with me?  Will you come and join us?”

“No, Marian, I cannot do that.  But if you can leave them and come with me for half an hour, I will not keep you longer.”

She stood hesitating a moment, while her companion remained on the spot where she had left him.  “Come, Miss Leslie,” called Captain Ewing.  “You will have it dark before we can get down.”

“I will come with you,” whispered she to Maurice, “but wait a moment.”  And she tripped back, and in some five minutes returned after an eager argument with her friends.  “There,” she said, “I don’t care about the grotto, one bit, and I will walk with you now;—only they will think it so odd.”  And so they started off together.

Before the tropical darkness had fallen upon them Maurice had told the tale of his love,—and had told it in a manner differing much from that of Marian’s usual admirers, he spoke with passion and almost with violence; he declared that his heart was so full of her image that he could not rid himself of it for one minute; “nor would he wish to do so,” he said, “if she would be his Marian, his own Marian, his very own.  But if not—” and then he explained to her, with all a lover’s warmth, and with almost more than a lover’s liberty, what was his idea of her being “his own, his very own,” and in doing so inveighed against her usual light-heartedness in terms which at any rate were strong enough.

But Marian here it all well.  Perhaps she knew that the lesson was somewhat deserved; and perhaps she appreciated at its value the love of such a man as Maurice Cumming, weighing in her judgment the difference between him and the Ewings and the Grahams.

And then she answered him well and prudently, with words which startled him by their prudent seriousness as coming from her.  She begged his pardon heartily, she said, for any grief which she had caused him; but yet how was she to be blamed, seeing that she had known nothing of his feelings?  Her father and mother had said something to her of this proposed marriage; something, but very little; and she had answered by saying that she did not think Maurice had any warmer regard for her than of a cousin.  After this answer neither father nor mother had pressed the matter further.  As to her own feelings she could then say nothing, for she then knew nothing;—nothing but this, that she loved no one better than him, or rather that she loved no one else.  She would ask herself if she could love him; but he must give her some little time for that.  In the meantime—and she smiled sweetly at him as she made the promise—she would endeavour to do nothing that would offend him; and then she added that on that evening she would dance with him any dances that he liked.  Maurice, with a self-denial that was not very wise, contented himself with engaging her for the first quadrille.

They were to dance that night in the mess-room of the officers at Newcastle.  This scheme had been added on as an adjunct to the picnic, and it therefore became necessary that the ladies should retire to their own or their friends’ houses at Newcastle to adjust their dresses.  Marian Leslie and Julia Davis were there accommodated with the loan of a small room by the major’s wife, and as they were brushing their hair, and putting on their dancing-shoes, something was said between them about Maurice Cumming.

“And so you are to be Mrs. C. of Mount Pleasant,” said Julia.  “Well; I didn’t think it would come to that at last.”

“But it has not come to that, and if it did why should I not be Mrs. C., as you call it?”

“The knight of the rueful countenance, I call him.”

“I tell you what then, he is an excellent young man, and the fact is you don’t know him.”

“I don’t like excellent young men with long faces.  I suppose you won’t be let to dance quick dances at all now.”

“I shall dance whatever dances I like, as I have always done,” said Marian, with some little asperity in her tone.

“Not you; or if you do, you’ll lose your promotion.  You’ll never live to be my Lady Rue.  And what will Graham say?  You know you’ve given him half a promise.”

“That’s not true, Julia;—I never gave him the tenth part of a promise.”

“Well, he says so;” and then the words between the young ladies became a little more angry.  But, nevertheless, in due time they came forth with faces smiling as usual, with their hair brushed, and without any signs of warfare.

But Marian had to stand another attack before the business of the evening commenced, and this was from no less doughty an antagonist than her aunt, Miss Jack.  Miss Jack soon found that Maurice had not kept his threat of going home; and though she did not absolutely learn from him that he had gone so far towards perfecting her dearest hopes as to make a formal offer to Marion, nevertheless she did gather that things were fast that way tending.  If only this dancing were over! she said to herself, dreading the unnumbered waltzes with Ewing, and the violent polkas with Graham.  So Miss Jack resolved to say one word to Marian—“A wise word in good season,” said Miss Jack to herself, “how sweet a thing it is.”

“Marian,” said she.  “Step here a moment, I want to say a word to you.”

“Yes, aunt Sarah,” said Marian, following her aunt into a corner, not quite in the best humour in the world; for she had a dread of some further interference.

“Are you going to dance with Maurice to-night?”

“Yes, I believe so,—the first quadrille.”

“Well, what I was going to say is this.  I don’t want you to dance many quick dances to-night, for a reason I have;—that is, not a great many.”

“Why, aunt, what nonsense!”

“Now my dearest, dearest girl, it is all for your