“Now, Dora, seriously, I want to know something of Doctor Urquhart's proceedings, and where a letter might reach him. Do find out for me, there's a good girl.” And he put his arm round me, in the elder-brotherly caressing manner which he sometimes adopted with Lisa and me, and which I never used to mind. Now, I felt as if I could not endure it, and slipped away. “I don't see, Francis, why you should not ask such a simple question yourself. It is no business of mine.”. “Then you really know nothing of Doctor Urquhart's whereabouts lately? He has not been to Rockmount?” “No.” “Nor written?” “I believe not. Why do you want to know? Have you been quarrelling with him?” For, aware that they two were not over fond of one another--a sudden idea, so ridiculously romantic that I laughed at it the next minute--made me, for one second, turn quite sick and cold. “Quarrelling, my dear child--young lady, I mean--am I ever so silly, so ungentlemanly, as to quarrel with anybody? I assure you not. There is the Dee! What a beautiful view this is!” He began to expatiate on its beauties, with that delicate appreciative taste which he has in such perfection, and in the expression of which he never fails. Under such circumstances, when he really seems pleased--not languidly, but actively, and tries to please others, I grant all Francis's claims to be a charming companion--for an hour's walk. For life--ah! that is a different matter! When with him, I often think of _Beatrices_ answer when _Don Pedro_ asks if she will have him as a husband?--“_No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day._” Love--fit for constant wear and tear, able to sink safely down= `````"to the level of every day's ```Most quiet need; by sun and candle-light,"= must be a rare thing, and precious as rare. “I think I never saw such a Christmas-eve. Look, Dora, the sky is blue as June. How sharp and clear the reflection of those branches in the river. Heigho! this is a lovely place. What a difference it would have made to me if Sir William had never married, and I had been heir to Treherne Court.” “No difference to you in yourself,” said I, stoutly. “Penelope would not have loved you one whit the more, only you would have been married a little sooner, which might have been the better for both parties.” “Heaven knows--yes,” muttered he, in such anguish of regret, that I felt sorry for him. Then, suddenly: “Do you think your sister is tired of waiting? Would she wish the--our engagement broken?” “Not at all. Indeed, I meant not to vex you. Penelope wishes no such thing.” “If she did,” and he looked more vexed still, “it would be quite natural.”