"Sit beside me, please, and not behind; I shall have quite a crick in my poor little neck by the way I have to turn--and I shall give you the reins too." In a moment Denzil was seated by her side. "And now," said she, "let us talk of something else than love; we have had quite enough of it for one day, my poor Denzil." How his heart thrilled again, at the sound of his own name on her lips. "Of what shall we speak--of what else can one think or speak when with you?" "Oh, anything; how do you like this dress, for instance--my ayah trimmed it?" and while speaking she opened her soft cashmere shawl and showed her waist and the breast of her dress trimmed with--Denzil knew not what--for to resist putting an arm round that adorable waist (a movement which we dare not quite say Miss Rose Trecarrel perhaps expected) was impossible. "Denzil--Mr. Devereaux!" she exclaimed--"oh good Heavens! if you--if we are seen by any one." "Pardon me--but permit me," he sighed. "Listen for a moment and do be reasonable. I can scarcely admit or realise the idea that you are _the_ one who is to give a tone, a colour, to all my future life. No, Denzil; you have paid me the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman; but it may not be. Let us be friends--oh yes! dear, dear friends, who shall never forget each other; but not lovers" (here she held up her ruddy lips to the bewildered Denzil) "not lovers--oh,no--not lovers!" Kisses stifled all that might have followed. What art or madness was this? Denzil felt as if the landscape swam around him, and he was rather fond and fatuous in his proceedings, we must admit; but his earnestness impressed at last the coquette by his side. She began to think she had gone rather too far, so she became grave, and a sadness almost stole over her face. She began to consider that this love-making was all very well and pleasant so long as it lasted, but where was it to end? As others have ended, thought Rose. There were moments when she could not help yielding to the calm delight with which the pure passion of Denzil was apt to inspire her, for there was a genuine freshness in it. Many had flattered her; many had pressed and kissed her hands, toyed with her beautiful hair, aye, and not a few had kissed her cheek too; but beyond all those, he seemed so happy, so intensely enchanted with her--seeming to drink in her accents--to live upon her smiles! In short, he thoroughly _believed_ in her, and she tried for the time to believe in herself; and yet--and yet--with the impassioned kisses of her young lover on her lips, she felt that it was all folly--folly in him, folly in her--a folly that must soon have a painful, perhaps a mortifying end. Did it never occur to her, that young though he was, those caresses and kisses--those words half sighed, and thoughts half-uttered, might never be forgotten by him; but be recalled in time to come with sadness as "the delight of remembered days."