leaf now and then detached itself by its own weight and silently
floated downwards. Mary sat, without wishing to utter a word to
disturb the unwonted tranquillity, the rest so precious after her
months of sea-voyage, her journey, her agitations. But Louis wanted
her seal of approval to all his past doings, and soon began on their
inner and deeper story, ending with, 'Tell me whether you think I was
right, my own dear governess--'

'Oh no, you must never call me that any more.'

'It is a name belonging to my happiest days.'

'It was only in play. It reverses the order of things. I must look
up to you.'

'If you can!' aaid Louis, playfully, slipping down to a lower step.

A tear burst out as Mary said, 'Mamma said it must never be that
way.' Then recovering, she added, 'I beg your pardon, Louis; I was
treating it as earnest. I think I am not quite myself to-day, I will
go to my room!'

'No, no, don't,' he said; 'I will not harass you with my gladness,
dearest.' He stepped in-doors, brought out a book, and when Mrs.
Frost arrived to congratulate and be congratulated, she found Mary
still on the step, gazing on without seeing the trees and flowers,
listening without attending to the rich, soothing flow of Lope de
Vega's beautiful devotional sonnets, in majestic Spanish, in Louis's
low, sweet voice.