"No it was not. Will you not try to understand? _You_ are that little girl; it was your face I kissed the other day down by the river. There is no face in the world I hold so dear as yours." "Then you had no _right_ to kiss it," I break out indignantly, my surprise and bewilderment making me vehement. "I did not give you my picture to put in your locket and treat in that way. How dare you carry me all over the place with you--making things so unpleasant everywhere? And, besides, you are talking very falsely; it is impossible that _any one_ could think me beautiful." "_I_ do," says he, gently. "I cannot help it. You know we all judge differently. And as to my kissing it, surely that was no great harm. It became mine, you know, when you gave it to me; and for me to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it." He gazes down tenderly upon the face lying in his hand. "The Phyllis here does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," he says, softly. I am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insensibly, I go closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings the innocent cause of all the disturbance. "It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with reluctance. "It never appeared to me so--ah--_passable_ before. It must be the gold frame. Somehow--I never thought so until to-day--but now it seems much too pretty for me." "Remember your promise," says Mr. Carrington, demurely, "to admire and say no disparaging word." "You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite of myself, and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a merry laugh as I review the situation. I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping my hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have not gone far in my meditations when I become aware that Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and is steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground beside me; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I raise my head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet is nameless. "Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, "will you marry me?" A long, long pause. I am still alive, then! the skies have _not_ fallen! "_What!_" cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised amazement. _Can_ I have heard aright? Is it indeed me he is asking to marry him? And if so--if my senses have not deceived me--who is to tell Dora. This thought surmounts all others. "I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, rather disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is emboldened, and, advancing, takes both my hands.