AN IMPASSIONED WOOING. "This is the very place for lovers," said Lord Vivianne. They had reached an open piece of moorland, where the shadows of the tall trees danced on the grass, and great sheets of bluebells contrasted with starry primroses. There was a bank where the wild thyme grew, sheltered by a tall linden-tree. The birds seemed to have made their home there, for the summer air resounded with sweet song. Lord Vivianne drew aside the fallen branch of a slender willow, that she might find room to sit down. "The very place for lovers," he repeated. She looked at him with a smile: "But we are not lovers," she said; "therefore it is not the place for us." "False logic! fairest of ladies!" he replied; "there is no knowing how soon we may become lovers, though. I feel sure we did not meet for nothing." "Can a girl have two lovers?" she asked, looking up at him with the frank eyes of an innocent child. He laughed. "That quite depends on the state of one's conscience," he replied, "and the elasticity of one's spirits. If two lovers are objectionable, the proper thing is to send one away." "Which should be sent away?" she asked. "I should say the one that is loved the least. Tell me, now, do you really love this country admirer of yours very much?" "I do not understand why you ask me." "Do you not? I will tell you. Because everything that interests you interests me; your pains and pleasures would soon be mine." "I have no pains," she said, thoughtfully, "and no pleasures." "Then yours must be a most dull and monotonous life. How can you, with so keen a capacity for enjoyment--how can you bear it?" "I do not bear it very well," she replied; "I am always more or less bad-tempered." He laughed again. "You improve upon acquaintance, Miss Brace. You are the first lady whom I have heard plead guilty to bad temper. As a rule, women prefer making themselves out to be angelic." "I am very far from that," said Doris, frankly; "nor am I naturally bad-tempered. It is because nothing in my life pleases or interests me." "Not even your lover?" he said, bending over her and whispering the words. She blushed under his keen gaze. Her words had betrayed more than she meant to betray. Then he added: "Would you like it changed--this dull life of yours--into one of fairy brightness?" "I should; but it will not be possible. My fate in the future is fixed--nothing can alter it." "Yes," he said, gently, "there is one thing that can alter it, and only one--your will and mine." Then he seemed to think that for a time he had said enough. He looked over the trees, and began to talk to her about the flowers. Doris did not much care about that--she had not come out to listen to the praises of flowers; she would rather ten thousand times over that her lordly lover had praised herself.