"I hardly know. It was all that Wishing Well, I fancy. For the future I shall feel it my duty to be superstitious. At all events, it surely helped to bring it about, as he only wanted the opportunity to declare himself," says Dora, complacently. "What did he say, Dora? Was he nervous--or---" "Very nervous. He seemed quite afraid to come to the point. You see I am always so distant in my manner," says my modest sister, "he had no way of judging what my answer was likely to be." "I am sure whatever he said was just what it should be, he is so thoroughly sincere," I remark, still anxious to get at the root of the matter. "I am afraid I cannot altogether satisfy your curiosity Phyllis, it has all got so mixed up. Of course he told me principally what I knew before--that he adores me, for instance, and was desirous of marrying me, and so forth. Ha was slightly incoherent, I thought; but it really signified very little whether his English was good or bad, so long as I managed to understand what he meant." "Of course not, darling. Oh, Dora, I am so sorry we let mamma go without telling her." "I did tell her, dear. At least, that is, he--George told her." She brings out the Christian name of her beloved with a charming amount of diffidence. "He said he would like to make sure of me; and indeed I thought myself it might perhaps be as well he should be the one to mention it to her as a settled thing. You understand?" I do, and begin to entertain rather an admiration for Dora's astuteness. "You will forgive me now, Dora?" I say, suddenly leaning over to put my hand on hers. "Forgive you? Forgive what?" "Well, dear, when I married 'Duke, you know, I thought you were rather vexed--you said so many things; and sometimes I have fancied, since, you still think I was in the wrong." "My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are! 'Forgive you!' as if I had not done so, ages and ages ago--if indeed there was anything to forgive. Surely you couldn't have thought me so vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain bitter feelings against you all this time?" She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, and is gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should imagine her capable of any vile feeling. "I sometimes feared---" I stammer, utterly abashed in the presence of so much sweetness. "You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis; they are very unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving thoughts, I should hope, towards any one--least of all towards you, my sister. Besides, I ought really to be thankful to you, if anything. Marmaduke and I would have been most unsuited to each other. He is far too _exigeant_ and masterful for my taste. George is in every way more desirable." I don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments. "He is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth--honest, good-natured George Ashurst having won his way into my affections long since. "I don't know that I was ever more delighted about anything in my life."