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of childhood; a little old-fashioned thing, as some only girls are apt to be; painfully sensible and practical, and unable to read character, or understand it, not recognising the strength of individuality—afraid of it; a little scornful, relentlessly narrow, and still building up ideals on the few novels she had read—audaciously expressing the sentiment that if people would only be sensible there would be no trouble in the world, quite unaware of the fact that, while still afraid of a mouse, she had set about the task of lion-taming. Her little attempts at netting him, had amused Clifford at first; at last they bored him. He was like a man who has accepted a bouquet of flowers, which for one instant pleased him, but which impeded his progress, his freedom of gait, and which he longed to throw away.

Mrs Martin would never have owned that she had worked hard to bring about the marriage, almost insisted upon it. Still less would she have owned that he was a catch for her daughter. Later, it pleased her to tell her friends, that Lucille might have married any one, but that they had seemed so much in love with each other; that it was a responsibility to be a mother, one never knew if to interfere, or leave things alone. Lately she had had an