"I always miss you," returns she, simply: "you know that." She flushes warmly, and lets her long lashes fall leisurely, until at length they hide from view the sweet confession of her eyes. There is a pause that embraces a full minute, and then she speaks again. "You have not yet told me the reason of your return," she says, gently. "I wearied of town," replies he. "A strange acknowledgment for one like me, but true. For once, I honestly pined for the country--insipid as I have always deemed it--and craved unceasingly for something fresh, new, innocent, something unused to gas, and the glare and unholy glitter of a city." He speaks bitterly--almost passionately--and as though for the moment he has altogether forgotten the existence of his companion. An instant later, however, he recovers himself. "I felt I should be happier, more fitted to cope with my work, if I could get even one glimpse of you!" "Are you not happy, then?" asks she, gently, her heart beating fast, her color growing and lessening rapidly. "Happy? no. Can a man be happy while a perpetual doubt distracts him? Can he know even the meaning of the word Peace, whilst devoured with a fear that he shall never possess the one great good he desires?" Again, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, not born of the present moment, but borrowed from some other hour, fills his tone. "Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling poor in words, now that the great crisis of her life has come. "So I am here," he goes on, softly, "to solve my doubt, to gain at least a rest from the gnawing suspense that for so long I have endured. Need I tell you that I love you?--that" (he pauses, and a faint contraction of the features, that dies almost as it is born, disfigures his face for a second)----"that you are the one woman in all the world upon whom I have set my heart?" There is silence. For Clarissa, an intense joy holds her mute; the very intensity of her happiness checks the flow of speech. He, too, seems lost in thought. Presently, however, he breaks the silence, and this time a faint anxiety may be discernible in his voice, though his face is calm and composed, as usual. "You do not speak, Clarissa. I have told you of my love, and you are silent. I now ask if you can love me? At least, give me an answer. Dearest,"--glancing at her averted face, and seeing the shy blush that adds another charm to its beauty,--"tell me the truth." "I can; I do love you!" says Clarissa, sweetly, and with perfect trust. She slips her hand into his. Raising his hat, he lifts the slender fingers to his lips, and kisses them; and, then, together--still hand in hand--they walk along, speechless, yet seemingly content.