"I am fortunate," he says, in a low tone. "Will you love the original, Clarissa, as you love this senseless picture? After long years, how will it be?" There is a touch of concern and doubt--and something more, that may be regret--in his tone. "I shall always love you," says the girl, very earnestly, laying her hand on his arm, and looking at him with eyes that should have roused all tenderness and devotion in his breast: "For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven." He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the hall, summons them gayly to breakfast. * * * * * In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that calls her mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone. The bells are ringing out still the blessed Christmas morn; yet she, with downcast eyes, and chin resting in her hand, heeds nothing, being wrapped in thought, and unmindful of aught but the one great idea that fills her to overflowing. Her face is grave--nay, almost sorrowful--and full of trouble; yet underlying all is gladness that will not be suppressed. At this moment--perhaps for the first time--she wakes to the consciousness that the air is full of music, borne from the belfries far and near. She shudders slightly, and draws her breath in a quick unequal sigh. "Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I could tell my father!" She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes fall upon the table on which her arm is resting. There are before her a few opened letters, some Christmas cards, a very beautiful Honiton lace handkerchief, on which her initials, "R. A.," are delicately worked, and--apart from all the rest--a ring, set with pearls and turquoises. Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, slipping it on and off her slender finger, without a smile, and with growing pallor. A step upon the stairs outside! Hastily, and in a somewhat guilty fashion, she replaces the ring upon the table, and drops the lace handkerchief over it. "Miss Ruth," says a tall, gawky country-girl, opening the door, "the maister he be waitin' breakfast for you. Do ee come down now." Then, catching sight of the handkerchief, "La! now," she says, "how fine that be! a beauty, surely, and real lace, too! La! Miss Ruth, and who sent you that, now? May I see it?" She stretches out her hand, as though about to raise the dainty fabric from its resting-place; but Ruth is before her. "Do not touch it," she says, almost roughly for her. Then, seeing the effect her words have caused, and how the girl shrinks back from her, she goes on, hurriedly and kindly, "You have been in the dairy, Margery, and perhaps your hands are not clean. Run away and wash them, and come to attend table. Afterwards you shall come up here and see my handkerchief and all my pretty cards." She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and gently, but with determination, draws her towards the door.