“My work at Court was finished a little earlier to-day, and I have done myself the pleasure of calling to inquire for Mrs. Leconte and you after the marriage. Will you accept a few roses?” The manner was grave and a trifle formal, but George Lennox was one in whom any woman might safely put her trust--tall and well built, with a strong face and kindly eyes--a modest and courteous gentleman. “It is good of you to remember us, but, indeed, you have always been most kind,” said Miss Leconte, with the faintest flush on her cheek. “Mother is out, and will be sorry to have missed you. Will you not sit down, and I'll order tea.” The London sun, which labours hard, with many ingenuities, to do his part by every home and give to each its morsel of brightness, found the right angle at that moment, and played round Grace's face with soft afternoon light She was not beautiful like her sisters, but one man out of a thousand would learn to love her for the loyalty that could be read in the grey eyes, and the smile, a very revelation of tenderness, as if her soul had looked at you. “Yes, mother and I have settled down to our quiet round after the festivities; mother needs a rest, for you know how little she thinks of herself; her unselfishness puts one to shame every day.” Mr. Lennox looked as if he knew another unselfish person, and Grace continued hurriedly: “Every one thought the marriage went off so well, and the day was certainly perfect Didn't Gertrude and Frances make lovely brides, each in her own way?” “So the people said, and I know how they would look; but it happened that I stood where I could only see the bridesmaids.” “Will you excuse me putting the roses in water? they are the finest I've seen this summer, and I want to keep them fresh,” and she escaped for the moment He watched her place one dish on the end of the grand piano and another on a table near her mother's chair, and a yearning look came over his face. They talked of many things, but both were thinking of one only, and then it was she, In her kindness, that provoked the catastrophe. “You will come again and see mother; she misses Gerty and Frances, and it is very pleasant to have a talk with old friends.” “And you, Grace--Miss Leconte, I mean--may I not come to visit you?” “You know that I am glad when you come, and always will be; you are my friend also,” and she looked at him with frank, kind eyes. “Nothing more than friend after all these years--seven now since first we met Do you not guess what I was thinking as your sisters stood beside their bridegrooms in church?” But she did not answer. “Can you give me no hope, Grace? If you told me to come back in five years, I would count them days for the joy of hearing you call me by my name at the end, as a woman speaks to the man she loves.”