This was not like the first visit he had paid after his convalescence. Then he had been prevented from speaking all he had to say, for Pringle was there; and however much a man may be in love and dying to speak out to the object of his young affections, he cannot very well do it in the presence of her brother. Much, therefore, as Tom liked Pringle, he had hated him at the time of his prior visit for his persistent presence. "Why on earth could he not go away and set to work about his sermon or something else," Tom thought savagely at the time, and I believe his wishes were shared in this respect, mingled with a little trembling and nervousness, by Miss Lizzie herself, for she doubtless guessed what Tom wished to say. There is something inherent in the divine sex which tells them at once when a male biped is going to make a fool of himself. But then Pringle had not gone away, and the tale, that billionth-told tale, had still to be told. Why is it that writers always allude to a love episode as that "old, old story?" It is never old, my dear sir, or madam, or mayhap, mademoiselle. It is always new. That wonderful little drama, oftentimes a tragedy, in which two actors only take the parts. It is like the fabled Phoenix which possesses the faculty of reproduction, for it is perennially fresh, and young, and new. Tom found Lizzie alone this time, and you may be certain he took advantage of the opportunity. You see the case had nearly been concluded before, and was well understood between the pair, so it did not require all that serious preparation, and Quintus Curtian resolve before dashing into the yawning gulf. Tom plunged into it at once. Lizzie's fresh little face, with its melting violet eyes, and the pretty embarrassment which she displayed as she received him in her little conservatory, into which he walked at once to find her on hearing Pringle was out, made him fear nothing and all confident. The impudent dog darted forward on catching sight of her; and, would you believe it, he had Lizzie folded in his arms before she knew where she was, murmuring over her "My darling, my darling!" And Miss Lizzie--I suppose from discretion, knowing how powerless she was against his strong arms, did not appear to offer any protest. "Abandoned girl!" I hear the old campaigner exclaiming in her dulcet accents. Master Tom was not going to let the opportunity slip, you may be bound. He had been looking forwards to this, and thinking over the scene all the time he had been laid up, and he was quite prepared to act it. "Lizzie, my darling," he whispered, after a pause, into her little pink ear, which was temptingly near him, "will you be my own darling little wife?" And Lizzie said nothing; she only looked up in his face. And their lips met in one long thrilling kiss. Of course it was the old or new story all over again. Rehearse it, Damon; fight the love-strife over again, Phyllis, and you have the scene complete.