“What a good fellow Harrington is,” muttered Wentworth, following him. “To think of his rescuing that old brute from the boys, and taking as much care of him as if he was Scott’s Maida! I wonder that I, who admire such things so much, never think of doing such things.” He got into the room just as Harrington was disappearing up the flight of steps into the room above, whither he went to wash his hands and brush his clothes. In a few minutes he descended again, closed the windows, put on his slouched hat, and they set off together arm in arm. CHAPTER XIII. THE FAIRY PRINCE. They arrived in a few minutes at the house in Temple street, and were let in by Patrick. Wentworth had been complaining that something was hurting his foot, and sat down in the hall to take off his boot and see what was the matter, while Harrington went up-stairs into the library. The jewel of the rich room was Muriel, and Muriel lay on a velvet couch, asleep. The young man noiselessly approached her, and stood tenderly watching her beauty in its repose. She lay in a glimmer of light from the western window, and the faint radiance lit her dreamful face, whose beauty was like a hymn of immortal joy. The draped arms lay restfully along her form, with the white hands lightly clasped together, and the expression of the figure was repose. Gazing at her with heavenly sadness, the lover saw her countenance gleam with an evanescent smile, and the lips murmured a word. It was “Richard.” A quick pang shot to his heart, and at the same instant Muriel started and awoke. “John!” she exclaimed, coloring and smiling as she sprang up from her light sleep and gave him her hands, “you here! When did you come?” “Just come,” he replied, holding her hands, and smiling into her face. “Why, Muriel, you looked like the Sleeping Beauty of the fairy tale.” “Oh, John! And you like the fairy prince that woke the Sleeping Beauty up!” returned Muriel, gaily. “That’s a compliment, I suppose,” said Harrington. “Compliment for compliment,” said she. “Oh, but mine was the truth,” he replied. “And so was mine,” she answered. “So it’s arranged that I am the Sleeping Beauty awakened, and you the fairy prince that awakened me, and now I shall have to follow you through all the world, as she did him in Tennyson’s poem.” Harrington’s color rose, and he dropped her hands. Muriel blushed too, for she felt that what she had said in thoughtless play had carried some deeper sense to him than she had intended. “Pardon me, John,” she murmured, “I did not mean to offend you.” “You offend me!” exclaimed Harrington, in astonishment. “You, Muriel! Indeed, no.” “Then why did you color?” she asked archly, reassured. “I? Oh—no matter. I was thinking of something.” “Of what? Come now. Be frank, John. I desire—I command”— Harrington looked confused for a moment. An impulse came to him. “It is you who must tell me, Muriel,” he said in a low voice.