perplexed and astounded at her own bliss.

'Confess, now, in the summer, when you were in love with Lesbia, you
thought me a horrid kind of girl,' she said, presently, when they were
standing side by side at the window, waiting for the coach.

'Never, Mary. My crime is to have thought very little about you in those
days. I was so dazzled by Lesbia's beauty, so charmed by her
accomplishments and girlish graces, that I forgot to take notice of
anything else in the world. If I thought of you at all it was as
another Maulevrier--a younger Maulevrier in petticoats, very gay, and
good-humoured, and nice.'

'But when you saw me rushing about with the terriers--I must have seemed
utterly horrid.'

'Why, dearest There is nothing essentially horrible in terriers, or in a
bright lively girl running races with them. You made a very pretty
picture in the sunlight, with your hat hanging on your shoulder, and
your curly brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. If I had not been deep in
love with Lesbia's peerless complexion and Grecian features, I should
have looked below the surface of that Gainsborough picture, and
discovered what treasures of goodness, and courage, and truth and purity
those frank brown eyes and that wide forehead betokened. I was sowing my
wild oats last summer, Mary, and they brought me a crop of sorrow But I
am wiser now--wiser and happier.

'But if you were to see Lesbia again would not the old love revive?'

'The old love is dead, Mary. There is nothing left of it but a handful