He did not finish the sentence, for a servant just then appeared around a clump of evergreens, telling him they were waiting for him upon the lawn, where the refreshments were ready to be served. “Yes, I’ll come at once;” and with a sense of relief, Roy jumped up, and turning to Mr. Burton, said: “You may be sure I shall do right in the future, whatever I may have done in the past. But tell me, please,”—and Roy’s voice dropped to a whisper,—“did she know you were to speak to me? Did she desire it?” “Certainly not,” Mr. Burton replied, with some little asperity of manner, which Roy acknowledged was just, while at the same time he was glad to be assured that Georgie did not know. She would have fallen in his estimation, if she had, and he wanted to think as well of her as he could; for, in his mind, as he walked back to the lawn, there was a rapidly forming resolution to propose to her immediately, and thus make amends for any harm done her heretofore. The tables looked very pretty under the trees, with fruit, and flowers, and ices, and silver; and the guests were in their gayest moods; but something was the matter, and Roy felt as if oppressed with a nightmare as he did the duties of host, seeing nothing distinctly except Miss Overton’s face, which, flushed with excitement, seemed prettier than ever. He did not care for Miss Overton that he knew of; certainly he had never had a thought of loving her, and yet he knew every time she moved, and what she did, and what she said, and something connected with her made it harder for him to concentrate his mind on Georgie, as he felt in duty bound to do. The lawn tea was over at last, and the little party were talking of a game of croquet by moonlight, when down one of the gravel walks came Mrs. Burton, her rich silk rustling about her, and her lace streamers floating back from her head. She had concluded to drive over in the carriage, she said, as some of the young people might be glad to ride home.