found it, in three years he'd come back and ask her to marry him.

And what had she said, what had she promised? Nothing but that, if in three years he found his fortune, he might come back and ask her to marry him. That wasn't much. Any man who came her way might propose to her without asking her leave. But suppose she had given leave to a man to propose to her, what was that [man to expect? A refusal? Hardly. And yet what else could she have done? How could she tell a man he might not come and make her an offer in three years? Was ever girl so perplexed and worried over anything? She might worry herself as much as she liked now, but when she was with him she had none of these questionings. She felt lonely and helpless here in her own room now, but down-stairs, an hour ago, she had no doubts or fears of any kind. In fact, she had felt it was all right, and there was no cause for question or uneasiness.

What would her father think? Think of what? Was there really anything to think about? No. He had not made love to her; he had not asked her might he make love to her three years hence. In fact, he had not said a word of any such kind, and she was silly to trouble herself over the subject.

And yet there was a great deal in it. It was very provoking; she could not make up her mind on the matter. Here she was, with a secret and no secret. Love had been made to her, and it had not been made to her. Was she bound to him for three years? That appeared to be the real question.

Suppose any one else cared for her between this and the end of three years, was she to reserve herself for John?

This being the first time she had ever thought of him as John, she grew crimson, and covered her face. But during all this doubting and questioning, she never put the foremost and most obvious questions, 'Did she care for John Clifford more than for any other man living? Was she in love with him?'

It is much less disagreeable to discuss the merits of a disagreeable situation in which you are, than to consider purely your own relation to it, when you have not a very satisfactory record of your own

acts.

At luncheon Kate could scarcely keep her chair. She felt, she knew not why, a strong impulse to get up, run into the hall, and cry out something-anything-so long as she might cry out. She prayed the servant might let something fall, and thus give her an excuse for shrieking. In a tremulous desperate way she asked herself why she should be so disturbed. She was wholly unable to answer.

Meyers was gloomy and reserved. When he found neither Borthwick nor Milward was to be at Fane's that day, he thought nothing could be better for his purpose, for he should have an opportunity of talking the matter over quietly with Fane, who would in all likelihood refer him to Kate, charming Kate. He had fancied a nice quiet chat. with Kate, and had gone so far as to calculate on success, and wound up the evening with a picture of Kate and him alone in the draw

ing-room, and his arm around young Kate's waist.

Suddenly he remembered the invalid, and he recollected Fane had told him this man was to be down for dinner on Christmas-day. Confound this invalid! Why didn't he fall down at any other part of the road save that which Fane had to go on his way back from the ball? It was really too bad.

When he arrived at this point he made up his mind to speak, if possible, to Fane on the way home from church. He was on that day to be Fane's guest, and at Christmas people are inclined to be more indulgent than at any other time of

the year.

The unfortunate turn the conversation had taken on the road completely baffled his design, and made it impossible for him even to approach the subject. Here, too, was this confounded young pauper in the way. What a romantic fool Fane was to pick up every scurvy tramp he found rolling in the gutter! Only for this intruder he could speak to Fane as they smoked after dinner. Now what was he to do? Give it up altogether, or propose a walk to Fane between luncheon and dinner? This Clifford could not walk with them. It was hard a man could not talk a matter of this kind over in comfort. Why should he be driven to risk failure by hinting at this matter to Fane in the open air, and with the thermometer indicating ten degrees of frost? After dinner was the proper time to speak of such a thing. It was too bad that this Clifford should be in the way. Why on earth did not the

wretched boy keep his bed another day?

Under the circumstances he could not speak to Kate until he had sounded her father. He was not in the position of a young man who had come into the house and seen Kate grown up, and fallen in love with her. She had grown up under his own eyes from babyhood to womanhood, and it would seem almost treason for him to talk of love to her until he had first spoken to his old friend, her father. Suppose he made love to Kate, and she gave him her heart, he would feel distressed at having to break the matter to her father. It would seem as though he had abused the hospitality of an old friend.

At last, to the relief of every one but the Major, luncheon was

over.

'Well,' cried the hearty host as he rose, 'what are we going to do? Have you got any suggestion, Kate ?'

Kate had no suggestion to make.

'What do you say to a stroll, Fane?' asked Meyers. There are a couple of hours of daylight yet.'

'The very thing-the very thing. Clifford can't come. Of course, Clifford couldn't think of coming. What do you say, Kate? You haven't had a breath of air to-day.'

'I am afraid Miss Fane would find it too cold. It is bitter weather,' said the Captain.

'My dear Meyers, I am sure you cannot think any girl of mine would shirk a good old-fashioned English Christmas frost. Nonsense, my dear fellow! Look at her. Why, she's the picture of health-a regular Hebe! You and I, Meyers, may

feel the cold-our blood isn't what it used to be twenty years ago. What say you, Kate-will you come?'

Kate gladly assented, for she did not wish to be alone with Clifford, and she felt she wanted a breath of fresh air to soothe her excited nerves. When they returned from their walk, they all sat round the fire for a while, chatting and talking of all manner of indifferent subjects until dinner-time. It was not until the cloth had been removed, and Kate had gone to the drawing-room, and Clifford retired for the night, that Meyers found himself alone with Fane.

Meyers had all day been on thorns. He could not keep his eyes off Kate, and every moment he was afraid she would notice his glances. He could not help thinking that Clifford was a very goodlooking young man. He even got so far in his jealous candour as to admit that Kate and this young man would make a very handsome couple. It is more than probable he would not have made this admission if he thought there was the least reason to suspect Clifford had for Kate any feeling stronger than gratitude. Meyers was now resolved to lose no time. When not more than a third way through his first cigar, he said,

'Fane, you and I have known one another now some time.'

'Longer than it's pleasant to remember.'

'And we've got on pretty well together.'

'Bless my heart, of course we have! Why not? You don't feel ill, or anything of that kind, do

you? It's like as if you were going to ask me to be trustee to your will.'

Meyers smiled, and gently waved aside the smoke he had blown. from his lips.

'It isn't quite so bad as that. You know my position? You know my income?'

'Bless my heart, I know everything about you! This looks more like matrimony than a will. What's the matter, Meyers? Out with it, man !'

'It will surprise you.'

'Never mind about that. Go on; I like being surprised.'

'Suppose I was to tell you I had it in my mind to ask a very young girl to marry me, what would you say?'

'That, to my mind, like ought to marry like.'

'Suppose she were in every way more than too good for me, and that the only thing she wanted was years, what would you say then?'

'I should say like a shot, Why marry her? Are there not women enough in England to choose

from ?'

'Yes; but suppose I had never thought of marrying any one else, and I could not now think of marrying any one but her. What would you say then?'

'Confound me if I know! You seem to have made up your mind to corner me. I tell you, I think like ought to marry like; and the minute I say that, you say what do I think if you marry some one who is younger than you? Do I know her? Who is she?'

'You know her.' 'Who is she?'

'She is young enough to be your daughter.'

The devil! That is young. Why, then, she is young enough to be your own daughter!'

'I am afraid she is.'

'Then, my dear Meyers, I'd most strongly recommend you to choose some one else.'

Upon this, Meyers made up his mind to proceed no further for the present.

MRS. KENRICK was sitting at home on Christmas afternoon when the postman came. He was very late. All the forenoon, and all the afternoon down to the moment he knocked at Mrs. Kenrick's door, he had been bending under a huge sackful of Christmas cards, sachets, and letters. Not less than fifty letters were for the pretty young widow. The goodlooking parlour-maid, having abstracted such letters as were for the servants, carried the remainder of the heap up to her mistress on a little tray.

The mistress of the house was

sitting in her bright little drawingroom reading. She put down her book with a cry of dismay when she saw the formidable heap. She clasped her hands, and looked helplessly at the tray. After a while she plucked up courage, and ventured to take up the letters and sort them in the order of their sizes. Some were as large as the volume of the novel she had laid down. Some obviously contained only the frailest and daintiest atoms of complimentary cardboard. Some suggested Ormus and Ind; some smelt of varnish, some smelt of gum, some smelt of sealing-wax. All had some exterior good wish or motto connected with the sea

son.

Many were from admirers, many from those who would wish to be more than admirers, and many from friends, acquaintances, and relatives; but all had some allusion to either Christmas or the New Year. When she ascertained this she sat a while before breaking the covers

of any.

'Can it be,' she thought, that among that pile of letters and parcels there is not one without something about the season on it? For instance,' she continued,