in dangling it before Dora's jealous eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy's delighted ones! Probably it would be handsomer than Dora's, which has seen service, and, being newer, would surely keep better time.

Then the delight passes, and something within me whispers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only give it to me for Dora's sake, and yet I know--I cannot say why I feel it--but I know if I accepted a watch from Mr. Carrington all at home would be angry, and it would cause a horrible row.

"Thank you," I say mournfully. "Thank you very, very much, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from you. It is very kind of you to offer it, and I would accept it if I could, but it would be of no use. At home I know they would not let me have it, and so it would be a pity for you to spend all your money upon it for nothing."

"What nonsense!" impatiently. "Who would not let you take it?"

"Papa, mamma, every one," I answer, with deepest dejection. (I would so much have liked that watch! Why, why did he put the delightful but transient idea into my head?) "They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, and--and they would send it back to you again."

"Is there anything else you would like, Phyllis, that I might give you?"

"No, nothing, thank you. I must only wait. Mother has promised me her watch upon my wedding morning."

"You seem comfortably certain of being married, sooner or later," he says, with a laugh that still shows some vexation. "Do you ever think what sort of a husband you would like, Phyllis?"

"No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help it," is my somewhat tart reply. My merry mood is gone: I feel in some way injured, and inclined towards snappishness. "And from what I have seen of husbands I think they are all, every one, each more detestable than the other. If I were an heiress I would never marry; but, being a girl without a fortune, I suppose I must."

Mr. Carrington roars.

"I never heard anything so absurd," he says, "as such mature sentiments coming from your lips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, one who has passed through the fourth campaign; but to see you--- You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a 

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