"And you are quite pleased that I am going to marry him?" reading his face with her clear eyes; she is very pale, and strangely nervous. "My darling, my one thought is for your happiness." There is evasion mixed with the affection in this speech; and Clarissa notices it. "No: say you are glad I am going to marry him," she says, remorselessly. "How can you expect me to say that," exclaims he, mournfully, "when you know your wedding-day must part us?" "Indeed it never shall!" cries she, vehemently; and then, overcome by the emotion of the past hour, and indeed of the whole day, she gives way and bursts into tears. "Papa, how can you say that? To be parted from you! We must be the same to each other always: my wedding-day would be a miserable one indeed if it separated me from you." Then he comforts her, fondly caressing the pretty brown head that lies upon his heart, as it had lain in past years, when the slender girl of to-day was a little lisping motherless child. He calls her by all the endearing names he had used to her then, until her sobs cease, and only a sigh, now and again, tells of the storm just past. "When is it to be?" he asks her, after a little while. "Not too soon, my pet, I hope?" "Not for a whole year. He said something about November, but I could not leave you in such a hurry. We must have one more Christmas all to ourselves." "You thought of that," he says, tenderly. "Oh, Clarissa, I hope this thing is for your good. Think of it seriously, earnestly, while you have time. Do not rush blindly into a compact that must be binding on you all your life." "I hope it _will be_ for all my life," returns she, gravely. "To be parted from Horace would be the worst thing that could befall me. Always remember that, papa. I am bound to him with all my heart and soul." "So be it!" says George Peyton, solemnly. A sigh escapes him. For some time neither speaks. The twilight is giving place to deeper gloom, the night is fast approaching, yet they do not stir. What the girl's thoughts may be at this moment, who can say? As for her father, he is motionless, except that his lips move, though no sound comes from them. He is secretly praying, perhaps, for the welfare of his only child, to her mother in heaven, who at this time must surely be looking down upon her with tenderest solicitude. Clarissa puts her lips softly to his cheek. "Our engagement will be such a long one, that we think--" "Yes?" "We should like it keep it secret. You will say nothing about it to any one?" "Not until you give me leave. You have acted wisely, I think, in putting off your marriage for a while." Almost unconsciously he is telling himself how time changes all things, and how many plans and affections can be altered in twelve months.