"You fear, perhaps, that those schemes of
isolation have never succeeded; that weariness
will come when there are no longer new objects
to suggest interest or employment?"

"Not that," said she, more faintly.

"Then the objection must be myself.
Florence, is it that you would not, that you could
not, trust me with your happiness?"

"You ask for frankness, and you shall have
it. I cannot accept your offer. My heart is no
longer mine to give."

"And this—this engagement, has been for
some time back?" asked he, almost sternly.

"Yes, for some time," said she, faintly.

"Am I acquainted with the object of it?
Perhaps I have no right to ask this. But there
is a question I have full and perfect right to
ask. How, consistently with such an engagement,
have you encouraged the attentions I
have paid you?"

"Attentions! and to me! Why, your attentions
have been directed rather to my sister—at
least, she always thought so—and even these we
deemed the mere passing flirtations of one who
made no secret of saying that he regarded
marriage as an intolerable slavery, or rather, the
heavy price that one paid for the pleasure of
courtship."

"Are the mere levities with which I amused
an hour to be recorded against me as
principles?"

"Only when such levities fitted into each
other so accurately as to show plan and
contrivance."

"It was Loyd said that. That speech was
his. I'd lay my life on it."

"I think not. At least, if the thought were
his, he'd have expressed it far better."

"You admire him, then?" asked he, peering
closely at her.

"I wonder why they are not here," said she,
turning her head away. "This same race ought
to come off by this time."

"Why don't you answer my question?"

"There he goes! Rowing away all alone,
too, and my aunt is waving her handkerchief in
farewell. See how fast he sends the boat through
the water. I wonder why he gave up the
race?"

"Shall I tell you? He dislikes whatever he
is challenged to do. He is one of those fellows
who will never dare to measure himself against
another."

"My aunt is beckoning to us to come back,
Mr. Calvert."

"And my taste is for going forward,"
muttered he, while at the same time he sent the
boat's head suddenly round, and pulled
vigorously towards the shore.

"May I trust that what has passed between
us is a secret, not to be divulged to another
not even to your sister?"

"If you desire—if you exact."

"I do, most decidedly. It is shame enough
to be rejected. I don't see why my disgrace is
to be paraded either for pity or ridicule."

"Oh, Mr. Calvert—"

"Or triumphed over," said he, sternly, as he
sent the boat up to the side of the little jetty,
where Miss Grainger and her niece awaited
them.

"Poor Loyd has just got bad news from
home," said Miss Grainger, "and he has
hastened back to ask, by telegraph, if they wish him
to return."

"Any one ill, or dying?" asked Calvert,
carelessly.

"No, it's some question of law about his
father's vicarage. There would seem to be a doubt
as to his presentation—whether the appointment
lay with the patron or the bishop."

Calvert turned to mark how the girls received
these tidings, but they had walked on, and with
heads bent down, and close together, were deep
in conversation.

"I thought it was only in my profession,"
said Calvert, sneeringly, "where corrupt
patronage was practised. It is almost a comfort
to think how much the good people resemble
the wicked ones."

Miss Grainger, who usually smiled at his
levities, looked grave at this one, and no more
was said, as they moved on towards the
cottage.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfleld," &c.
On APRIL 30th will be published, PART I., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.