"It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw the face of which I speak. It was in a neighborhood as small—yes, quite as small as this. The owner of it was a mere child—a little country-girl, knowing nothing of the busy world outside her home, but I shall never again see any one so altogether sweet and lovable."
"What was she like?" I ask, curiously. I am not so uneasy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, interfere with Dora. "Describe her to me?"
"What is she like, you mean. She is still in the land of the living. Describe her I don't believe I could," says my companion, with a light laugh. "If I gave you her exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew rapturous over a description? If you cross-examine me about her charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It is there, without one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable something that is perfection."
"You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout.
"She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me—" Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, "By the bye," he says, "what may I call you? Miss Vernon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest."
"Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like."
"Thank you; I shall like it very much. Apropos of photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit for your portrait?" He is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of photographing me upon his brain without further loss of time.
"Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"—diffidently—" you would like one?"
"Like it!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?"
"Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me."
"What happened to the eyes?"
"There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way I always looked, but I don't think so myself. You don't think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?"
Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inquiry.
"No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety of any sort seems good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production.
"What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. "It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting."
Having told me the hour, he says:
"Have you no watch, Phyllis?"
"No."
"Don't you find it awkward now and then being ignorant of the time? Would you like one?"
"Oh, would I not?" I answer, promptly. "There is nothing I would like better. Do you know it is the one thing for which I am always wishing."
"Phyllis," says Mr. Carrington, eagerly, "let me give you one."
I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in earnest? He certainly looks so; and for a moment I revel in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have a watch of my very own; to be able every five minutes to assure myself of the exact hour! Think of all the malicious pleasure I should enjoy 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 curate, and find yourself poorer after your marriage than before?"
"That I never will," I return, decisively. "In the first place, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich man, or I will not marry at all."
"I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. "The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you."
"I do mean it," I answer defiantly; "but as my conversation pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, you perverse child; and don't try to imagine yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me?" holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. "Don't, I'm not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me company until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next day? Probably Friday will see me at Summerleas. In the meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind you not to forget your promise about that Carston photo."
"I will remember," I say; and so we separate.
CHAPTER VI.
On