"I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been puzzling my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me."
"If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hesitate and blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a very uncomfortable story to relate.
"I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably.
"Well then, the fact is, down at the trout-river, the day before yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I feared if you mentioned having my portrait they might—they take up such ridiculous fancies at home—they might think it was mine."
"Is it possible they would imagine anything so unlikely?"
"Of course"—with eager haste—"I know it was not, but they might choose to think differently; and, besides, something has whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was wrong in giving my photograph to you at all. Was I?" wistfully.
"That is a hard question to ask me, Phyllis, who am so happy in the possession of it. I certainly do not think you were."
"Then you would see no harm in my giving my picture to any one?"
"Of course I do not say it would be right of you to go about giving it to every man you meet."
"No? Then why should I give it to you in particular. After all, I believe I was wrong."
"Oh, that is quite another thing altogether," says Mr. Carrington, biting his lip. "You have known me a long time; I may almost be considered an old friend. And, besides, you can be quite sure that I will prize it as it deserves."
"That is saying very little," I return, gloomily. His reasoning seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin to wish my wretched likeness back again in my untidy drawer.
"But why are you so sure it was not your picture I was caught admiring the other day?" asks Mr. Carrington, presently, with an ill-suppressed smile.
"Nonsense!" I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed at). "For what possible reason would you put my face into your locket? I knew you would think me vain when I began, but I am not—and—and I am very sorry I took the trouble to explain it to you at all."
"Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, and I do not think you vain. I was merely imagining what a fatuous fool I must have looked when discovered in the act you describe. But have you no curiosity to learn who it really was I was so publicly embracing?"
"I know," I return, with a nod; "it was that little girl you told me of some time since—the village maiden, you remember, whose face was so dear to you. Am I not right!"
"Quite right. What a capital guess you made!"
"May I see her?" I ask, coaxingly. "Do let me get just one little peep at her. I am sure she is lovely, from what you say; and I do so like pretty people?"
"You would only be disappointed, and then you would say so, and I could not bear to hear one disparaging word said of my beauty."
"I will not be disappointed. Of course you have had so much experience to guide you—your taste must be better than mine. Please let me see her."
"You promise faithfully not to scorn the face I will show you? You will say no slighting word?"
"I will not indeed. How could you think I would be so rude?"
"Very good." He raises his watch-chain and detaches from it a plain gold locket. I draw near and gaze at it eagerly. What will she be like, this rival of Dora's?
"Now, remember," he says again, while a look of intense amusement crosses his face, "you have promised to admire?"
"Yes, yes," I answer impatiently; and as he deliberately opens the trinket I lean forward and stare into the large gray-blue eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon.
---
Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He appears grave now, and rather anxious. I know I am as white as death.
"So you have put me into a locket too," I say, in a low tone. "Why?"
"Do not use the word 'too,' Phyllis. You have no rival; I keep no woman's face near me except yours."
"Then it was an untruth you told me about that girl?"
"No it was not. Will you not try to understand? You are that little girl; it was your face I kissed the other day down by the river. There is no face in the world I hold so dear as yours."
"Then you had no right to kiss it," I break out indignantly, my surprise and bewilderment making me vehement. "I did not give you my picture to put in your locket and treat in that way. How dare you carry me all over the place with you—making things so unpleasant everywhere? And, besides, you are talking very falsely; it is impossible that any one could think me beautiful."
"I do," says he, gently. "I cannot help it. You know we all judge differently. And as to my kissing it, surely that was no great harm. It became mine, you know, when you gave it to me; and for me to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it." He gazes down tenderly upon the face lying in his hand. "The Phyllis here does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," he says, softly.
I am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insensibly, I go closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings the innocent cause of all the disturbance.
"It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with reluctance. "It never appeared to me so—ah—passable before. It must be the gold frame. Somehow—I never thought so until to-day—but now it seems much too pretty for me."
"Remember your promise," says Mr. Carrington, demurely, "to admire and say no disparaging word."
"You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite of myself, and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a merry laugh as I review the situation.
I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping my hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have not gone far in my meditations when I become aware that Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and is steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground beside me; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I raise my head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet is nameless.
"Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, "will you marry me?"
A long, long pause.
I am still alive, then! the skies have not fallen!
"What!" cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised amazement. Can I have heard aright? Is it indeed me he is asking to marry him? And if so—if my senses have not deceived me—who is to tell Dora. This thought surmounts all others.
"I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, rather disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is emboldened, and, advancing, takes both my hands.
"Why do you look so surprised?" he says. "Why will you not answer me? Surely for weeks you must have seen I would some time ask you this question. Then why not to-day? If I waited for years I could not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And you, Phyllis—say you will be my wife."
"I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly; "it is out of the question. I never knew you—you cared for me in this way—I always thought—that is, we all thought—you—"
"Yes?"
"We were all quite sure—I mean none of us imagined you were in love with me."
"With