that day that Billy got home the new pigeons--such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words.
"Oh! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes--not always--I envy Billy. And so it is really only a month since first I saw you? To me it seems a year--more than a year."
"Ah! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correctness of an early opinion. "I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning."
"Did you?" in a curious tone.
"Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it? Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, unless one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or---"
"Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with a smile. "Surely there can be nothing tame about a place where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, changing his manner, "You have described Puxley very accurately, I must confess; and yet, strange as it may appear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as yet I am not tired of either it or--you."
"And yet you find the time drag heavily?"
"When spent at Strangemore--yes. Never when spent at Summerleas."
I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain eagerly for some more leading question that shall still further satisfy me on this point, but find nothing. Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour.
"We must be going now," I say, extending my hand; "it is getting late. Good-bye, Mr. Carrington--and thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly.
"If you persist in thinking there is anything to be grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "by letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood."
"Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington looks at me, as though determined to take permission from my eyes alone.
"Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a man so altogether grown up express a desire for our graceless society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we pause to bid each other once more good-bye.
"And I may come to-morrow?" he asks, holding my hand closely.
"Yes--but--but--I cannot give you the handkerchief before mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly.
"True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief. But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as the entrance-gate, could you?""I don't know," I return doubtfully, "If not, I can 

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