"I never heard anything so absurd," he says, "as such mature sentiments coming from _your_ lips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, one who has passed through the fourth campaign; but to _see_ you--- You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your marriage than before?" "That I never will," I return, decisively. "In the first place, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich man, or I will not marry at all." "I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. "The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you." "I _do_ mean it," I answer defiantly; "but as my conversation pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good-bye!" "Good-bye, you perverse child; and don't try to _imagine_ yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me?" holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. "Don't, I'm not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me company until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next day? Probably Friday will see me at Summerleas. In the meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind you not to forget your promise about that Carston photo." "I will remember," I say; and so we separate. CHAPTER VI. On my return home, to my inexpressible surprise and delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, totally unexpected by any member of the household; and the small excitement his appearance causes makes him doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our humdrum existence is hailed with positive rapture. Even mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, considering all the years she has passed under papa's thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and forgets for the time being her daily cares. "You see, I found I would be here almost as soon as a letter," explains Roland; "and, as I hate writing like a nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise." Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him with humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indulgent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. Even as it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equalled by mine. "How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly?" I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he will allow.