“Perhaps he merely brought it as a sort of symbol,” suggested Mr. Beresford; “a kind of flowery metaphor signifying that all Ireland, in his person, is at her disposal, only waiting to be played upon.” “If that is what he means, he must be a jolly muff,” remarked the Honourable Arthur. “I should think he'd have to send a guidebook with the bloomin' thing.” We never knew how Terence arranged about the incubus; we only saw that he did not enter the drawing room with it in his arms. He was well received, although there was no special enthusiasm over his arrival; but the first guest is always at a disadvantage. He greeted the young ladies as if he were in the habit of meeting them often, but when he came to Patricia, well, he greeted her as if he could never meet her often enough; there was a distinct difference, and even Mrs. Beresford, who had been incredulous, succumbed to our view of the case. Patricia took him over to the piano to see the arrangement of some lilies. He said they were delicious, but looked at her. She asked him if he did not think the garlands lovely. He said, “Perfectly charming,” but never lifted his eyes higher than her face. “Do you like my dress?” her glance seemed to ask. “Wonderful!” his seemed to reply, as he stealthily put out his hand and touched a soft fold of its white fluffiness. I could hear him think, as she leaned into the curve of the Broadwood and bent over the flowers-- 'Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet is she!' A footman entered, bearing the harp, which he placed on a table in the corner. He disclaimed all knowledge of it, having probably been well paid to do so, and the unoccupied girls gathered about it like bees about a honeysuckle, while Patricia and Terence stayed by the piano. “To think it may never be a match!” sighed Francesca, “and they are such an ideal pair! But it is easy to see that the mother will oppose it, and although Patricia is her father's darling, he cannot allow her to marry a handsome young pauper like Terence.” “Cheer up!” said Bertie Godolphin reassuringly. “Perhaps some unrelenting beggar of an uncle will die of old age next and leave him the title and estates.” “I hope she will accept him to-night, if she loves him, estates or no estates,” said Salemina, who, like many ladies who have elected to remain single, is distinctly sentimental, and has not an ounce of worldly wisdom.