A piquant incident occurred while they yet lingered at dessert. The chief result, perhaps, of Muriel’s narration, was to lend an added blazon, in Mrs. Eastman’s mind, to the character of Harrington; and, by the way, she still firmly believed—his declaration to the contrary notwithstanding—that her daughter loved him. “I often think,” she observed, during the conversation, “how superior John is to all other men I know. The other day I met him in the street, and my first impression was of his superiority in contrast to those around him.” “Yes, that strikes one certainly,” returned Muriel, with a nonchalant air. “Ah, there is none like him, none!” said Mrs. Eastman. “I wish I had the rewarding of him.” Muriel laughed. “Virtue is its own reward you know, mamma,” she said, playfully. “But what other reward would you give him?” “You!” quickly said Mrs. Eastman, smiling and coloring. Muriel looked at her with a twinkling mouth and a demure face. “You do not mean to say, mamma,” she replied, “that you would choose Harrington from the crowd of my adorers for my husband.” “Indeed,” said Mrs. Eastman, with some warmth, “if I had the choosing, Harrington should be your husband to-morrow.” Muriel now looked at her with an indescribable air of bewitching gaiety. “To-morrow, mamma? So soon?” she said, jestingly. Mrs. Eastman looked confused, like one who has been betrayed into saying a foolish thing, and blushing deeply, began to laugh. “Well,” she replied, with an air of raillery, “the day after to-morrow.” “The day after to-morrow,” repeated Muriel, her countenance beaming with gracious fun. “Well, my dear mamma, I will reflect upon it, and if I decide to oblige you by marrying Harrington the day after to-morrow, I will let you know.” Mrs. Eastman laughed at this pleasantry, and thinking Muriel was evading the subject, said no more, but rose from the dinner-table with her. Their relation as mother and daughter also involved, as is not always the case, the relation of courteous friendship, and this was the nearest approach Mrs. Eastman had ever made to penetrate within the veil of any reservation of Muriel’s. Immediately after dinner, Muriel wrote a note to Wentworth, bidding him come to the house instantly. This she dispatched by Patrick, bidding him find the young artist, if possible, and give it into his own hand; and Patrick, who would have gone through fire and flood for his young mistress, promised to find Wentworth if he was to be found, and started off on his errand. It was about four o’clock when Wentworth arrived. He was shown up into the studio, where Muriel was waiting for him. Pale and wan, and grave even to coldness, he was the handsome and gallant Wentworth still; a man to be loved at first sight by women and by men, even now, when a storm had blown upon his May.