"Rene. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will."—Much Ado About Nothing.

It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was still the very heart of summer.

Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains, her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.

Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, spending—how, he hardly knows, though perhaps she does—a good deal of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird (this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.

Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.

As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the wind, falls upon his ears.

The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much empressement soar upward and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many impassioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.

"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that."

"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you do like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them over impatiently.

"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian instantly suppresses him.

"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve' she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines are rather pretty."

reads Archie, and then stops.

"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he would call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him now."

quotes Lilian, mischievously.

"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'—you know it?—well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a year later and left me all his money."

"More than you deserved," says Lilian.

Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, and declare themselves completely used up.

"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains.

"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.

"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly.

"Miss Beauchamp, you really must," from Taffy, decides the point.

Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with reluctance, and sails down upon the quartette below, followed by Sir Guy.

"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it."

"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod."

"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian.

"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called 'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?"

"I do: so you don't take any bobs off my wages," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot see how all this made the poor man odious."

"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was unmistakably dirty, and——"

"Oh, Cyril!"

"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water."

"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper lip.

"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian should be blamed: she would investigate the matter; and I'm nothing, if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my dear Florence."

"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian.

"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau."

"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly.

"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,—she said. Yet he died, some said of fever, others of—Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever paid to the others. When he did droop and die she planted all sorts of lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears for ever so long. Could affection farther go?"

"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers on my grave: the bare idea would make me turn in it."

"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly.

"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril, languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs. Boileau, for instance."

"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps the least concerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips; Lilian is distinctly angry.

"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight.

"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly as it seems.

"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on, we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one."

"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of the conversazione will be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald; and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain.

As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,—and having cheroots,—are comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose, and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but expressionless face.

Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise.

At last Lilian loses all patience.

"Oh! hang these midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the expression used, makes them all laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it was before.

"Have I said anything very bizarre?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes wide at their laughter. "Oh!"—recollecting—"did I say 'hang them'? It is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?"

"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he speaks.

"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy, presently.

The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady story just being related by the former.

"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who is to drive who, is the question."

"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?" asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have killed herself for putting the question to him.

"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the principal feature in it.

Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted silence. Truly luck is dead against him.

"Oh,—that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thorough woman, of course makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,—according to her view of the case,—from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to drive her! Oh! it is intolerable!

"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest. "There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come here. I want you to do me a great favor,"—with an enchanting smile. "Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"—another smile still more enchanting.

"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was in store for me. Dear Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager I am to start for her charming Grange!"

He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it.

"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone."

"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone."

"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an emphasis upon the personal pronoun.

"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And Florence—would you like anything to rub your poor nose?—cold cream—or glycerine—or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude.

"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening.

"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has bitten it shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too bad,—is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest commiseration.

Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,—who receives it with the utmost sang-froid,—and, putting her handkerchief up to the wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation.

Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This devotion on his part is more than Lilian—in spite of her suspicions—has bargained for.

"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh.

"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things," replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers.

Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the end of the long lawn, he sees her.

"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her.

"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this sally,—indeed, scarcely hearing,—"it was all a mistake; I could not speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; and—will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"

"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her nerves!"

"She will be quite as safe with Cyril—or—your cousin."

"Which cousin?"

"Chesney."

"I think not, because I am going with Archibald."

"You can easily break off with him," anxiously.

"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?"

"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing tone.

"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times," forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not answer me differently."

"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely.

"No, you were afraid," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends the red blood to his forehead.

"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily.

"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me."

She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them—beside his own ring—he sees another,—newer.

"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to his question.

"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination.

A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy says:

"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?"

"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly. "You should remember I don't acknowledge one."

"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?"

"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power? However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"—mockingly—"when he does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the subject." Then she laughs a little. "Don't you think it is rather absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon."

"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely.

"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it.

"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, interrupts him.

"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely wear either none, or both."

"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's.

"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as it suits me,—because I adore rings."

"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so self-willed, and so determined."

quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; it does me little good. You want your way, and I want mine; I am not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were tyrannical."

"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily.

"Very well; then I shall say it. One would think I was a baby, the way you—scold—and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,—never, never, never!"

"Lilian, listen to me——"

"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so—somnolent,"—with a sneer,—"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate disagreeable people! Why do you speak to me? It does neither of us any good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy."

"Unhappy!"

"Yes," petulantly, "miserable. Surely of late you must have noticed how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, without my telling you, that I detest being with you!"

"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is beating wildly with passionate pain and anger.

"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to me for many a day."

Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously warm-hearted and kindly and fond.

For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A little plain speaking will do him no harm,—in fact, may do him untold good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors. (What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be more absurd?

Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so that, later on,—just before dinner,—seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies, walking up and down in deepest meditation,—evidently of the depressing order,—she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make the amende honorable; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to be friends with her again.

So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium blossom she carries in her hand. It is only partly opened, and is delicately tinted as her own skin.

When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of his unexpected (?) nearness.

"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium.

"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower."

"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow has touched and shaken her.

"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs.

For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply.

"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and crushes it out of all shape and recognition.

* * * * * * *

Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour.

Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller one that leads to the library.

Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness.

Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short to confront him.

"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again."

Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him, how unattainable.

"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?"

"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him."

"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you before, I shall wear both—do you hear?—just as long as I please. So now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge, "I defy you, and dare you to do your worst."

Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light, through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly, he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms, and has kissed her once, twice, passionately.

Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom.

Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes her. Then slowly—slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws it lightly across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library, closing the door quietly behind her.

When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his own quarters, is seen no more that night.