apparently deaf to the silence with which I receive her remarks.

Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha until it is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, and I am almost beginning to fear the battle will be postponed, when papa, turning to me, says, carelessly, and as though it were a matter of no importance:-- "As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, at this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a month in her place." "But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly as rage will let me. "That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts offended. You are the youngest, and must give way." "But the invitation was not sent to me." "That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse can be offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come off until late in the autumn, there is no reason why you should remain at home all the summer." "This is some of your underhand work," I say, with suppressed anger, addressing Dora. "I would not speak of 'underhand work,' if I were _you_," returns she, smoothly, with an almost invisible flash from her innocent blue eyes. "Do not let us discuss the subject further," says papa, in a loud tone. "There is nothing so disagreeable as public recrimination. Understand once for all, Phyllis, the matter is arranged, and you will be ready to go next week." "I will not?" I cry, passionately, rising and flinging my napkin upon the ground. "I have made up my mind, and I will not go to Qualmsley. Not all the fathers in Christendom shall make me." "Phyllis!" roars papa, making a wild grab at me as I sweep past his chair; but I avoid him defiantly, and, going out, slam the door with much intentional violence behind me.

I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suffocated, half choked, by my angry emotion; but the sweet evening breeze revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a delicious twilight pervades the land.

I run swiftly, an irrepressible sob in my throat, down the lawn, past the paddock, and along the banks of the little stream, until, as I come to what we call the "short cut" to Briersley, I run myself into Mr. Carrington's arms, who is probably on his way to Summerleas.

Usually my greeting to him is a hand outstretched from my body to the length of my arm. Now I cast myself generously into his embrace. I cling to him with almost affectionate fervor. He is very nearly dear to me at this moment, coming to me as a sure and certain friend. "My darling--my life!" he exclaims, "what is it? You are unhappy; your eyes are full of trouble." His arms are round me; he 

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