"Are you?" cries he, in a subdued tone, straining her to his heart, and speaking with an emotional indrawing of the breath that betrays more than his words how deeply he is feeling, "my very own? Nay, more than that, Molly, you are my all, my world, my life: if ever you forget me, or give me up for another, you will kill me: remember that." "I will remember it. I will never do it," replies she, soothingly, the touch of motherhood that is in all good women coming to the front as she sees his agitation. "Why should I, when you are such a dear old boy? Now come and sit down again, and be reasonable. See, I will tie you up with my flowery chain as punishment for your behavior, and"--with a demure smile--"the kiss you stole in the _melee_ without my permission." "This is the chain by which I hold you," he says, rather sadly, surveying his wrists, round which the daisies cling. "The links that bind _me_ to _you_ are made of sterner stuff. Sweetheart," turning his handsome, singularly youthful face to hers, and speaking with an entreaty that savors strongly of despair, "do not let your beauty be my curse!" "Why, who is fanciful now?" says Molly, making a little grimace at him. "And truly, to hear you speak, one must believe love is blind. Is it Venus," saucily, "or Helen of Troy, I most closely resemble? or am I 'something more exquisite still'? It puzzles me why you should think so very highly of my personal charms. Ted," leaning forward to look into her lover's eyes, "tell me this. Have you been much away? Abroad, I mean, on the Continent and that?" "Well, yes, pretty much so." "Have you been to Paris?" "Oh, yes, several times." "Brussels?" "Yes." "Vienna?" "No. I wait to go there with you." "Rome?" "Yes, twice. The governor was fond of sending us abroad between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five,--to enlarge our minds, he said; to get rid of us, he meant." "Are there many of you?" "An awful lot. I would be ashamed to say how many. Ours was indeed a 'numerous father.'" "He isn't dead?" asks Molly, in a low tone befitting the occasion in case he should be. "Oh no: he is alive and kicking," replies Mr. Luttrell, with more force than elegance. "And I hope he will keep on so for years to come. He is about the best friend I have, or am likely to have." "I hope he won't keep up the kicking part of it," says Molly, with a delicious laugh that ripples through the air and shows her utter enjoyment of her own wit. Not to laugh when Molly laughs, is impossible; so Luttrell joins her, and they both make merry over his vulgarity. In all the world, what is there sweeter than the happy, penetrating, satisfying laughter of unhurt youth?