As she spoke Mr. Erbenfeld came up eagerly to Mrs. Archer, whom he immediately began urging to break her resolution of not dancing. As his glance fell upon Marion he bowed to her in the very stiffest and slightest manner. “Will you dance this with me, Miss Freer,” asked Sir Ralph, “whatever it is? I don’t know, but it really doesn’t matter.” And as she rose and took his arm, and they walked away, he added, “What have you done to offend that fellow—Erbenfeld?” “Nothing,” said Marion, “only—I think you forget.” “What?” he asked. “That I am a governess,” she answered simply. “Miss Freer,” he said, earnestly, “don’t vex me by that sort of thing. I won’t insult you by supposing for an instant that you mind any vulgar insolence of that kind, but it hurts me for you to seem conscious of it. Please, put all that nonsense aside. I am in a very good humour to-night, which, you must know, is a rare occurrence, and deserves to be commemorated. So I am going to enjoy myself, and you must do the same.” “I assure you I intend to do so,” she said. Please remember it was you, not I, that took any notice of Mr. Erbenfeld’s manner.” “Well, forgive me for having done so,” said he. “And now tell me what is your idea of enjoying yourself? Shall we dance this, or find a comfortable corner for ‘sitting it out in’?” “I should like to dance this,” said she; “if you don’t mind?” “Mind!” said he; but the one little word held a good deal So they danced and enjoy it; Marion being young enough, and Ralph not so old after all as he fancied. He found his views on various subjects undergoing a curious change this evening. Dancing and its attendants no longer seemed to him so utterly insane and ridiculous as he had hitherto considered them. The music was really very good, the floor capital, and some of the ladies’ dresses exceedingly pretty. Marion was amused at his expressions of satisfaction. “You really must be in a very good humour, Sir Ralph,” said she, “or else you have hitherto belied yourself. I always understood you detested balls.” “So I do, in general,” he replied, “this one is an exception. Do you care about such things, Miss Freer?” “Yes,” answered Marion, “I think I do. Not exceedingly perhaps, as some girls do. But then my life has been different. I have no mother or sister, and I have lived very much out of the world.” “But you are not an orphan?” he asked hesitatingly; “your father is alive? He is a clergyman, I think, is he not?” And before his mind rose a picture of the struggling curate, and the unluxurious home in which this girl had probably been reared. Though, how, under such circumstances, she had come to be what she was, was a mystery beyond his powers to fathom. They were sitting in a quiet corner, and as he spoke, Marion’s face was full in his view. She was looking down, but as he asked these questions he distinctly saw her colour change, as it rarely did. There was a change too in her voice as she replied: