“So much nicer, you know, than going to some stupid, fashionable place,” said Miss Georgie, with bright eyes, and the brightest of fresh roses on her cheeks. “Not that I am so ungrateful as to abuse poor old Brighton, and the rest; but this will be something new.” “And new things are always better than old ones,” suggested Anstruthers. “Some new things always are,” answered Georgie, with spirit. “New virtues, for instance, are better than old follies. New resolutions to be charitable, instead of old tendencies to be harsh. New----” “I give it up!” interposed Hector. “And I will agree with you. I always agree with you, Georgie,” in a softer tone. The poor, pretty face bloomed into blush-rose color, and the sweet eyes met his with innocent trouble. “Not always,” said Georgie. “You don’t agree with me when I tell you that you are not as good as you ought to be--as you might be, if you would try.” “Am I such a bad fellow, then?” drawing nearer to her. “Ah, Georgie! etc., etc.----” until, in fact, he wandered off in spite of himself, into that most dangerous ground, of which I have already spoken. Actually, within the last few days, the idea had occurred to him, that, perhaps--possibly, just possibly--he would not be going so far wrong, if he let himself drift into a gentle passion for Georgie. Perhaps, after all, he could give her a better love than he had ever given to Lisbeth Crespigny. It would be a quieter love. Was not a man’s second love always quieter than the first, and at the same time was it not always more endurable and deep? But perhaps he could make it a love worthy of her. Mind you, he was not shallow or coarse enough to think that anything would do; any mock sentiment, any semblance of affection. It was only that he longed to anchor himself somehow, and admired and trusted this warm-souled young creature so earnestly, that he instinctively turned toward her. She was far too good for him, he told himself, and it was only her goodness that could help her to overlook his many faults; but perhaps she would overlook them; and perhaps, in time, out of the ashes of that wretched passion of his youth, might arise a phœnix, fair enough to be worthy of her womanhood. So he was something more tender, and so his new tenderness showed itself in his handsome face, and in a certain regret that he was to lose what Pen’yllan and the Misses Tregarthyn were to gain. “Will you let me come to see you?” he asked, at last. “Will you----” But there he stopped, remembering Lisbeth. How would she like such a plan?