“How long you have stayed, Dolly!” was Mrs. Copley’s greeting.  “I don’t see what is to become of me in this lonely place, if you are always trotting about.  I shall die!”

Dolly took this cold-water bath upon her pleasure with her usual sweetness.

“Dear mother, I did not know I was so long away.  I will not go again, if it is bad for you.”

“Of course it is bad for me.  It is very bad for me.  It is bad for anybody.  I just think and think, till I am ready to fly. ­What have you been doing?”

“Looking at Brierley House.  So beautiful as it is, mother!”

This made a diversion.  Mrs. Copley asked and received a detailed account of all Dolly had seen.

“It don’t sound as if I should like it,” was her comment.  “I should never have those old chairs and things sticking about.”

“O mother! yes, you would; they are most beautiful, and so old-fashioned; with the arms of the barons of Coppleby carved on them.”

“I shouldn’t want the arms of the barons of Coppleby on the chairs in my house, if I was the Earl of Brierley.”

“But they are everywhere, mother; they are cut and painted over the fireplace in the baron’s hall.”

“I’d cut ’em out, then, and put up my own.  Fire buckets, too!  How ridiculous.  What ornaments for a house!”

“I like them,” said Dolly.

“Oh, you like everything.  But, Dolly, what does your father think is to become of us?  He in London, and we here!  Such a way of living!”

“But you wanted country air, mother.”

“I didn’t; not in this way.  Air isn’t everything.  Did he say, if he could not come down Saturday, he would send Mr. St. Leger?”

“I do not see why he should,” said Dolly gaily.  “We don’t want him.”

“Now, what do you say that for, Dolly?”

“Just because I don’t want him, mother.  Do you?”

“He’s a very good young man.”

Dolly was silent.

“And very rich.”

Dolly said nothing.

“And I am sure he is very agreeable.”

Then, as her utterances still met no response, Mrs. Copley broke out.  “Dolly, why don’t you say something?  I have nobody to talk to but you, and you don’t answer me!  I might as well talk to the wall.”

“Mother, I would rather have father come down to see us.  If the choice lies between them, I would rather have father.”

Mrs. Copley leaned her head on her hand.  “Dolly,” she began again, “your father acts exactly as if he had lost money.”

Dolly again did not answer.  The repeated words gave her a very startled thrill.

“As if he had lost a good deal of money,” Mrs. Copley went on.  “I can’t get it out of my head that he has.”

“It’s no use to think about it, mother,” Dolly said as lightly as she could.  “Don’t you trouble yourself, at any rate.”

“That’s foolish.  How can I help troubling myself?  And if it was any use to think about it, to be sure I needn’t be troubled.  Dolly, it torments me day and night!” And tears that were bitter came into Mrs. Copley’s eyes.

“It need not, dear mother.  Money is not the only thing in the world; nor the best thing.”

“And that’s silly, too,” returned her mother.  “One’s bread and butter may not be the best thing in the world, ­I am sure this bread ain’t, ­but you can’t live without it.  What can you do without money?”

“I never tried, you know,” said Dolly; “but I should think it would be possible to be happy.”

“Like a child!” said her mother.  “Children always think so.  What’s to make you happy, when the means are gone?  No, Dolly; money is everything, in this world.  Without it you are of no consequence, and you are at everybody’s mercy; and I can tell you one thing besides; ­if the women could be happy without money, the men cannot.  If you don’t give a man a good breakfast, he’ll be cross all day; and if his dinner don’t suit him, you’ll hear of it for a week, and he’ll go off to the club besides.”

“He cannot do that without money,” said Dolly, trying to laugh.

“Then he’ll stay at home, and torment you.  I tell you, Dolly, life ain’t worth having, if you haven’t got money.  That is why I want you to like” ­ Mrs. Copley broke off suddenly.

“I should think one might have good breakfasts and dinners even if one was poor,” said Dolly.  “They say French women do.”

“What French women do is neither here nor there.  I am talking about you and me.  Look at this bread, ­and see that omelette.  I can tell you, nothing on earth would keep your father down here if he couldn’t have something better to eat than, that.”

Dolly began to ponder the possibility of learning the art of cookery.

“What puzzles me,” Mrs. Copley went on, “is, how he could have lost money?  But I am sure he has.  I feel it in all my bones.  And he is such a clever man about business too!”

Dolly tried with all her might to bring her mother off this theme.  At last she succeeded; but the question lingered in her own mind and gave it a good deal to do.

After a day or two more, Mr. St. Leger came as threatened.  Dolly received him alone.  She was in the garden, gathering roses, at the time of his arrival.  The young man came up to her, looking very glad and shy at once, while Dolly was neither the one nor the other.  She was attending to the business she had in hand.

“Well, how are you?” said her visitor.  “How is Mrs. Copley?  Getting along, eh?”

“When’s father coming down, Mr. St. Leger?”

“To-morrow.  He’ll come down early, he said.”

“Sunday morning?” cried Dolly, and stopped, looking at the young man.

“Oh yes.  He’ll come down early.  He couldn’t get off to-night, he told me.  Some business.”

“What business?  Anything he could not put off?  What kept him, Mr. St. Leger?”

“I don’t know, ’pon my honour.  He’ll be down in the morning, though.  What’s the matter?  Mrs. Copley isn’t worse, I hope?”

“No, I think not,” said Dolly, going back to her rose-pulling, with a hand that trembled.

“May I help you?  What are all these roses for?  Why, you’ve got a lot of ’em.  How do you like Brierley, Miss Dolly?  It likes you.  I never saw you look better.  How does your mother fancy it?”

“Mother has taken a fancy to travel.  She thinks she would like that better than being still in one place.”

“Travel!  Where to?  Where does she want to go?”

“She talks of Venice.  But I do not know whether father could leave his post.”

“I should say he couldn’t, without the post leaving him.  But, I say, Miss Dolly! maybe Mrs. Copley would let me be her travelling-courier, instead.  I should like that famously.  Venice ­and we might run down and see Rome.  Hey?  What do you think of it?”

Dolly answered coolly, inwardly resolving she would have no more to say about travelling before Mr. St. Leger.  However, in the evening he brought up the subject himself; and Mrs. Copley and he went into it eagerly, and spent a delightful evening over plans for a possible journey; talking of routes, and settling upon stopping places.  Dolly was glad to see her mother pleased and amused, even so; but herself took no sort of part in the talk.  Next day Mr. Copley in truth arrived, and was joyfully received.

“Well, how do you do?” said he, after the first rejoicings were over, looking from his wife to his daughter and back again.  It was the third or fourth time he had asked the question.  “Pretty jolly, eh?  Dolly is. You are not, my dear, seems to me.”

“You are not either, it seems to me, Mr. Copley.”

“I?  I am well enough.”

“You are not ‘jolly,’ father?” said Dolly, hanging upon him.

“Why not?  Yes, I am.  A man can’t be very jolly that has anything to do in this world.”

“O father!  I should think, to have nothing to do would be what would hinder jolliness.”

“Anything to do but enjoy, I mean.  I don’t mean nothing to do.  But it ain’t life, to live for business.”

“Then, if I were you, I would play a little, Mr. Copley,” said his wife.

“So I do.  Here I am,” said he, with what seemed to Dolly forced gaiety.  “Now, how are you going to help me play?”

“We help you,” said his wife.  “Why didn’t you come yesterday?”

“Business, my dear; as I said.  These are good berries.  Do they grow in the garden?”

“How should strawberries grow in a garden where nobody has been living?” said his wife.  “And what is your idea of play in an out-of-the-way place like this, Mr. Copley?”

“Well ­not a catechism,” said he, slowly putting strawberries in his mouth one after the other.  “What’s the matter with the place?  I thought it would just suit you.  Isn’t the air good?”

“Breathing isn’t quite the only necessary of life,” said his wife; “and you were asking about play.  I think a change would be play to me.”

“Well, this is a change, or I don’t know the meaning of the word.  You’ve just come, and have not examined the ground yet.  Must have a good market, if this fruit is any sign.”

“There is no market or anything else, except what you can find in a little village.  The strawberries come from Brierley House, where Dolly goes to get her play.  As for me, who cannot run about, on my feet, or anyway, I sit here and wonder when she will be back again.  Are we to have no carriage here, Mr. Copley?”

“We had better find out how you like it first, seems to me.  Hardly worth while, if you’re not going to stay.”

Mr. Copley rose and sauntered out to the porch, and Dolly looked furtively at her mother.  She saw a troubled, anxious face, lines of nervous unrest; she saw that her father’s coming had not brought refreshment or relief; and truly she did not perceive why it should.  Dolly was wholly inexperienced, in all but the butterfly life of very happy young years; nevertheless, she could not fail to read, or at least half read, some signs of another sort of life.  She noticed that her father’s manner wanted its ordinary careless, confident ease; there was something forced about it; his face bore tokens of loss of sleep, and had a trait of uneasiness most unwonted in Mr. Copley.  Dolly sat still a little while, and then went out and joined her father in the porch.  Mr. St. Leger had come in, so that she did not leave her mother alone.  Dolly came close and laid her arm round her father’s neck, her fingers playing with his hair; while he fondly threw one arm about her.

“How is it, Dolly?” he asked.  “Don’t you like it here?”

“I do, very much.  But mother finds it very quiet.  I think she would like to travel, father.”

“Travel!  But I can’t go travelling.  I cannot get away from London for more than a day.  Quiet!  I thought she wanted quiet.  I heard of nothing but her want of quiet, till I got her down here; and now she wants noise.”

“Not noise, exactly, but change.”

“Well, what is this but change? as I said.  I do not know what would please her.”

“I know what would please me,” said Dolly, with her heart beating; for she was venturing on unknown ground ­“A little money.”

“Money!” exclaimed her father.  “What in the world do you want with money down here?”

“To pay the servants, father,” Dolly said low.  “Margaret asked me for her month’s wages, and I said I would ask you.  Can you give it to me?”

“She cannot do anything with money down here either.  She don’t want it.  Her wages are safe, tell her.  I’ll take care of them for her.”

“But, father, if she likes to take care of them for herself, she has the right.  Such people like to see their money, I suppose.”

“I have yet to find the people that don’t,” said her father.  “But, really, she’ll have to wait, my child.  I have not brought so much in my pocket-book with me.”

This also struck Dolly as very unusual.  Never in her life, that she could remember, had her father confessed before to an empty purse.

“Then, could you send it to me, father, when you go back to London?”

“Yes, I’ll send it.  Or better, wait till I come down again.  You would not know how to manage if I sent it.  And Margaret really cannot be in a hurry.”

Dolly stood still, fingering the locks of her father’s thick hair, while her mental thermometer went down and down.  She knew by his whole manner that the money was not at hand even were he in London; and where then was it?  Mr. Copley had always till now had plenty; what had happened, or what was the cause of the change?  And how far had it gone? and to what point might it go? and what should she do, if she could not soon pay Margaret? and what would become of her mother, if not only her travelling projects were shattered, but also her personal and household comforts should fail her where she was?  What could Dolly do, to save money? or could she in any way touch the source of the evil, and bring about an essential bettering of this new and evil state of things?  She must know more first; and how should she get more knowledge?

There came a sigh to her ears here, which greatly touched her.  Nevertheless, for the present she could not even show sympathy, for she dared not seem aware of the need for it.  Tears came to her eyes, but she commanded them back; that would not do either.

“Suppose we take a walk, Dolly, in that jolly old wood yonder?” Mr. Copley said.  “That’s Brierley Park, ain’t it?  We might go and see the house, if you like.”

“It is Sunday, father.”

“Well, what then?  The world is pretty much the same thing Sunday that it is other days, eh?”

“Yes, father ­the world; but not the day.  That is not the same as the rest.”

“Why not?  We cannot go to church to-day, if that is what you are thinking of.  I took church-time to come down here.  And if you wanted to go to church, Dolly, you couldn’t have a finer temple than over yonder.”

“Oh, if you’ll go to church there, father, I’ll go.”

“To be sure I will.  Get your hat.”

“And my Bible?”

“Bible?” Mr. Copley looked at her.  “I didn’t say anything about a Bible.  We are going to take a walk.  You don’t want a book to carry.”

“How are we going to church there, then?”

“Think good thoughts, and enjoy the works of the good Creator.  That’s all you can do in any church, Dolly.  Come, little Puritan.”

Dolly did not quite know what to do; however, she got her hat, finding that her mother was willing; and she and her father went down to the bridge.  There, to her dismay somewhat, they were joined by Mr. St. Leger.  But not to Mr. Copley’s dismay; he welcomed the young man openly.  Dolly would have gone back now, but she did not dare.

“Going to see the house?” Lawrence asked.

“It is Sunday,” said Dolly.  “You cannot.”

“There’s a way of opening doors, even on Sunday,” said the other.

“No, not here.  The housekeeper will not let you in.  She is a Christian.”

“She is a Methodist, you mean,” said Mr. Copley.

“I believe she is a Methodist.  She is a good friend of mine.”

“What business have you to make friends with Methodists? we’re all good Church people; hey, Lawrence?  What grand old woods these are!”

“How old do you suppose these trees to be, father?”

“Can’t guess; less than centuries would not do.  Centuries of being let alone!  I wonder how men would get on, if they could have as good a chance?  Glorious!  Go on, children, and take your walk; I will lie down here and rest.  I believe I want that more than walking.”

He threw himself down at full length on the turf in the shadow of a giant beech.  Dolly and her remaining companion passed slowly on.  This was not what she had reckoned upon; but she saw that her father wished to be left alone, and she did not feel, nevertheless, that she could go home and leave the party.  Slowly she and Mr. St. Leger sauntered on, from the shadow of one great tree to another; Dolly thinking what she should do.  When they were gotten out of sight and out of earshot, she too stopped, and sat down on a shady bank which the roots of an immense oak had thrown up around its base.

“What now?” said Lawrence.

“This is a good place to stay.  Father wishes to be left to himself.”

“But aren’t you going any further?”

“There is nothing to be gained by going any further.  It is as pretty here as anywhere in the wood.”

“We might go on and see the pheasantry.  Have you seen the pheasantry?”

“No.”

“That does not depend on the housekeeper’s pleasure; and the people on the place are not all Methodists.  I fancy we should have no trouble in getting to see that.  Come!  It is really very fine, and worth a walk to see.  I am not much of a place-hunter, but the Brierley pheasantry is something by itself.”

“Not to-day,” said Dolly.

“Why not to-day?  I can get the gate opened.”

“You forget it is Sunday, Mr. St. Leger.”

“I do not forget it,” said he, throwing himself down on the bank beside her.  “I came here to have the day with you.  It’s a holiday.  Mr. Copley keeps a fellow awfully busy other days, if one has the good fortune to be his secretary.  I remember particularly well that it is Sunday.  What about it?  Can’t a fellow have it, now he has got it?”

The blue eyes were looking with a surprised sort of complaint in them, yet not wholly discontented, at Dolly.  How could they be discontented?  So fair an object to rest upon and so curiosity-provoking too, as she was.  Dolly’s advantages were not decked out at all; she was dressed in a simple white gown; and there were none of the formalities of fine ladyism about her; a very plain little girl; and yet, Lawrence was not far wrong when he thought her the fairest thing his eyes had ever seen. Her eyes had such a mingling of the childlike and the wise; her hair curled in such an artless, elegant way about her temples and in her neck; the neck itself had such a pretty set and carriage, the figure was so graceful in its girlish outlines; and above all, her manner had such an inexplicable combination of the utterly free and the utterly unapproachable.  Lawrence lay thinking all this, or part of it; Dolly was thinking how she should dispose of him.  She could not well say anything that would directly seem to condemn her father.  And while she was thinking what answer she should make, Lawrence had forgot his question.

“Do you like this park?” he began on another tack.

“Oh, more than I can tell you!  It is perfect.  It is magnificent.  There is nothing like it in all America.  At least, I never saw anything like it there.”

“Why not?” said Lawrence.  “I mean, why is there not anything like this there?”

Then Dolly’s face dimpled all up in one of its expressions of extreme sense of fun.

“We are not old enough,” she said.  “You know when these trees were young, our land was filled with the red men, and overgrown with forests.”

“Well, those forests were old.”

“Yes, but in a forest trees do not grow like this.  They cannot.  And then the forest had to be cut down.”

“Then you like England better than America?”

“I never saw in my life anything half so beautiful as Brierley Park.”

“You would be contented with such a home, wherever it might be?”

“As far as the trees went,” said Dolly, with another ripple of fun breaking over her face.

“Tell me,” said Lawrence, “are all American girls like you?”

“In what way?  We do not all look alike.”

“No, no; I do not mean looks; they are no more like you in that, than you say America resembles Brierley Park.  But you are not like an English girl.”

“I am afraid that is not an equal compliment to me.  But why should Americans be different from English people?  We went over from England only a little while ago.”

“Institutions?” Lawrence ventured.

“What, because we have a President, and you have a King?  What difference should that make?”

“Then you see no difference?  Am I like an American, now?”

“You are not like my father, certainly.  But I do not know any American young men ­except one.  And I don’t know him.”

“That sounds very much like a riddle.  Won’t you be so good as to explain?”

“There is no riddle,” said Dolly.  “I knew him when I was at school, a little girl, and I have never seen him since.”

“Then you don’t know him now, I should say.”

“No.  And yet I feel as if I knew him.  I should know him if we saw each other again.”

“Seems to have made a good deal of an impression!”

“Yes, I think he did.  I liked him.”

“Before you see him again you will have forgotten him,” said Lawrence comfortably.  “Do you not think you could forget America, if somebody would make you mistress of such a place as this?”

“And if everybody I loved was here?  Perhaps,” said Dolly, looking round her at the soft swelling green turf over which the trees stretched their great branches.

“But,” said Lawrence, lying on his elbow and watching her, “would you want everybody you love?  The Bible says that a woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her husband.”

“No; the Bible says that is what the man shall do; leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife.”

“They work it the other way,” said Lawrence.  “With us, it is the woman who leaves her family to go with the man.”

“Mr. St. Leger,” said Dolly suddenly, “father does not look well.  What do you think is the matter with him?”

“Oh ­aw ­yes!  Do you think he doesn’t look well?” Lawrence answered vaguely.

“Not ill ­but not just like himself either.  What is it?”

“I ­well, I have thought that myself sometimes,” replied the young man.

“What is the matter with him?” Dolly repeated anxiously.

“Oh, not much, he spends too much time at ­at his office, you know!”

“He has no need to do that.  He does not want the office ­not for the money’s sake.”

“Most men want money,” said Lawrence.

“But do you think he does?”

“Oh, why not?  Why, my father wants money, always wants money; and yet you would say he has enough, too.  Dolly” ­ She interrupted him.

“But what did you mean?  You meant to say he spends too much time at ­at what?  Say what you were going to say.”

Lawrence rolled himself over on the bank so that he could look up straight into her face.  It was a good look of his blue eyes.  “Dolly,” said he, “if you will leave father and mother for my sake, figuratively, I mean, ­of course, figuratively, ­I will take care that neither of them ever wants anything for the rest of their lives.  And you shall have a place as good as Brierley Park.”

Dolly’s spirits must have taken one or two quick leaps, for her colour changed so; but happily Lawrence’s speech was long enough to let her get possession of herself again.  She answered with an a plomb which, born of necessity as it was, and natural, equalled that of the most practised fine lady which should show her artificial habit or skill.  Like an instinct of self-preservation, I suppose; swift in action, correct in adjustment, taking its measures with unpremeditated good aim.  She answered with absolute seeming calmness ­

“You evade my question, I observe.”

“I am sure you evade mine!” said the young man, much more hotly.

“Perhaps I do.  Naturally, I want mine answered first.”

“And then will you give me the answer to my question?” said he eagerly.

“That would seem to be no more than good manners.”

“What do you want to know, Dolly?  I am sure I can’t tell what to say to you.”

“Tell me what makes my father look unlike himself,” said Dolly quietly.  She spoke quietly; not as if she were greatly concerned to know the answer; yet if Lawrence had guessed how her heart beat he would have had still more difficulty with his reply.  He had some, as it was; so much that he tried to turn the matter off.

“You are imagining things,” he said.  “Mr. Copley seems to me very much what I have always known him.”

“He does not seem to me as I have always known him,” said Dolly.  “And you are not saying what you are thinking, Mr. St. Leger.”

“You are terribly sharp!” said he, to gain time.

“That’s quite common among American women.  Go on, Mr. St. Leger, if you please.”

“I declare, it’s uncanny.  I feel as if you could see through me, too.  And no one will bear such looking into.”

“Go on, Mr. St. Leger,” Dolly repeated with an air of superiority.  Poor child, she felt very weak at the time.

“I don’t know what to say, ’pon my honour,” the young man averred.  “I have nothing to say, really.  And I am afraid of troubling you, besides.”

Dolly could not speak now.  She preserved her calm air of attention; that was all.

“It’s really nothing,” St. Leger went on; “but I suppose, really, Mr. Copley may have lost some money.  That’s nothing, you know.  Every man does, now and then.  He loses, and then he gains.”

“How?” said Dolly gravely.

“Oh, well, there are various ways.  Betting, you know, and cards.  Everybody bets; and of course he can’t always win, or betting would stop.  That’s nothing, Miss Copley.”

“Have you any idea how much he has lost?”

“Haven’t an idea.  People don’t tell, naturally, how hard they are hit.  I am sure it is nothing you need be concerned about.”

“Are not people often ruined in that way?” Dolly asked, still preserving her outside calm.

“Well, that does happen, of course, now and then, with careless people.  Mr. Copley is not one of that sort.  Not that kind of man.”

“Do not people grow careless, in the interest and excitement of the play?”

St. Leger hesitated, and laughed a little, casting up his blue eyes at Dolly as if she were a very peculiar specimen of young womanhood and he were not quite sure how to answer her.

“I assure you,” he said, “there is nothing that you need be concerned about.  I am certain there is not.”

“Not if my father is concerned about it already?”

“He is not concerned, I am sure.  Oh, well! there may be a little temporary embarrassment ­that can happen to any man, who is not made of gold ­but it will be all right.  Now, Miss Copley” ­

She put out her hand to stop him.

“Mr. St. Leger, can you do nothing to help?  You are kind, I know; you have always been kind to us; can you do nothing to help now?”

The young man rather opened his eyes.  Was this asking him for an advance?  It was a very cool proceeding in that case.  “Help?” he repeated doubtfully.  “What sort?”

“There is only one way that you could help,” said Dolly.

He saw she meant what she meant, if he could know what that was; her cheeks had even grown pale; the sweet, clear brown eyes sought his face as if they would reach his heart, which they did; but then, ­to assume any of Mr. Copley’s responsibilities ­

“I’ll assume all Mr. Copley’s responsibilities, Dolly,” he said with rash decision ­“if you’ll smile upon me.”

“Assume? ­Oh, did you think I meant that?” cried Dolly, while a furious flush came up into her face.  “What a notion you must have of Americans, Mr. St. Leger!  Do you think father would make over his responsibilities to another man?  I did not mean anything so impossible as that.”

“Forgive me Then what did you mean?”

“Perhaps something as impossible,” said Dolly sadly, while the flush slowly paled.  “I meant ­couldn’t you ­could you ­I don’t know but it is just as impossible!” ­

“Could I, what?  I could do most things, if you wished it, Dolly.”

“Then you must not call me that till I give you leave.  I was going to say, could you perhaps do anything to get my father away from this habit, or pleasure” ­

“Of betting?”

“Betting ­and cards ­it’s all the same.  He never used to do it.  Can you help, Mr. St. Leger?”

Dolly’s face was a sort of a marvel.  It was so childlike, it was so womanly; it was so innocent, and it was so forceful.  Lawrence looked, and would have liked to do the impossible; but what could he?  It was specially at his own father’s card-table, he knew, that Mr. Copley had lost money; it was wholly in his father’s society that he had been initiated into the fascination of wagers ­and of something else.  Could he go against his own father? and how could he? and himself a player, though a very cautious one, how should he influence another man not to play?

“Miss Copley ­I am younger than your father” ­ Lawrence began.

“I know.  But you might speak where I cannot.  Or you might do something.”

“Mr. Copley only does what my father does, and what everybody does.”

“If you were to tell your father, ­could not he perhaps stop it? ­bring my father off the notion?” Dolly had reached the very core of the subject now and touched what she wanted to touch; for she had a certain assurance in her own mind that her father’s intercourse with the banker and his circle of friends had led to all this trouble.  Lawrence pondered, looked serious; and finally promised that he would “see what he could do.”  He would have urged his own question then; but to Dolly’s great relief Mr. Copley found by this time that he had had enough of his own company; and called to them.  However she could not escape entirely.

“I have answered your question, Miss Copley,” Lawrence said as they were going down the slope towards the yet unseen caller.  “Hallo! yes, we’re coming. ­Now am I not to have the promised answer to mine?”

“How did you put it? the question?” said Dolly, standing still and facing her difficulties.

“You know. I don’t know how I put it,” St. Leger said with a half laugh.  “But I meant, Dolly, that you are more to me than everything and everybody in the world; and I wanted to know what I am to you?”

“Not that, Mr. St. Leger.”  Dolly was quiet, and did not shun his eyes; and though she did grow rosy, there were some suspicious dimples in her fair little face; very unencouraging, but absolutely irresistible at the same time.

“What then?” said the young man.  “Of course, I could not be to you what you are to me, Dolly.  Naturally.  But I can take care of your father and mother, and I will; and I will put you in a place as good as Brierley Park.  I am my father’s only son, and his heir, and I can do pretty much what I like to do.  But I care for nothing if you will not share it with me.”

“I am not going to leave my father and mother at present,” said Dolly, shaking her head.

“No, not at present,” said he eagerly, catching at her words.  “Not at present.  But you do not love anybody else, Dolly?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then you will let me hope?  You will let me hold myself your best friend, after them?”

“I believe you are that,” said Dolly, giving him her hand; ­“except my old Methodist acquaintance, Mrs. Jersey.”  Which addition was a little like a dash of cold water; but Lawrence was tolerably contented after all; and pondered seriously what he could do in the matter of Mr. Copley’s gaming tendencies.  Dolly was right; but it is awkward to preach against what you practise yourself.