"But Strangemore will be your home when you come to live with me. You will try to like it for my sake, will you not? It is dearer to me than either of the other places, although they say Luxton is handsomer. Don't you think you will be able to love it, Phyllis?" "Yes, but not for a long time. I can like things at once, but it takes me years and years and years to love any thing." "Does that speech apply to persons? If so, I have a pleasant prospect before me. You have known me but a few months; will it take you 'years and years' to love me?" There is lingering hope in his tone, expectancy in his eyes. "You? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps so," I reply, with unpleasant truthfulness. Marmaduke removes his arm from around me and frowns. "You are candor itself," he says, with a slight tinge of bitterness. "Certainly I can never hereafter accuse you of having concealed the true state of your feelings towards me. Whatever else you may be, you are honest." "I am," I return reluctantly; "I wish I were not. I am always saying the wrong thing, and repenting it afterwards. Papa says my candor makes me downright vulgar. Marmaduke, do you think honesty is the best policy?" I glance up at him with questioning eyes from under the flapping hat that has braved so many summers. "I do," he answers, warmly; "I think there is nothing on earth so sweet or so rare as perfect truthfulness. Be open and true and honest, darling, and like yourself as long as you can. Every hour you live will make the _role_ more difficult." "But why? You are older than I am, Marmaduke; would you tell a lie?" "No, not a direct lie, perhaps, but I might pretend to what I did not feel." "Oh, but that is nothing. I would do that myself," I exclaim, confidentially. "Many and many a time I have pretended not to know where Billy was when I knew papa was going to box his ears. There is no great harm in that. And Billy has done it for me." "You don't mean to say Mr. Vernon ever boxed your ears?" I explode at the tragic meaning of his tone. "Often," I say, merrily, "shoals of times; but that is not half so bad as being sent to bed. However"--reassuringly--"he has not done it now for ever so long--not since I have been engaged to you." "I should hope not, indeed," hotly. "Phyllis, why won't you marry me at once? Surely you would be happier with me than--than--living as you now do." "No, no," edging away from him; "I would not. I am not a bit unhappy as I am. You mistake me; and, as I told you before, he never does it now." "But it maddens me to think of his ever having done so. And such pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate! Of all the unmanly blackg--- I beg your pardon, Phyllis: of course it is wrong of me to speak so of your father." "Oh, don't mind me," I say, easily. "Now you are going to be my husband, I do not care about telling you there is very little love lost between me and papa."