"No, no; Beale can do the rest. Get along with you, and tell Dora to let me know when tea is ready," and the Vicar flung his cambric handkerchief over his white head and composed himself for a nap. Garth had not quite got rid of his flush when he opened the drawing-room door. Mr. Cunningham's smile had rather daunted him, but Dora gave him a bright little glance as he entered. "How long you and papa have been over your stupid business! I am so tired of being alone," she said, welcoming the truant with a fascinating attempt at a pout. The shaded lamps had been lighted in the Vicarage drawing-room; there was a burnished gleam of silver and china on the little square tea-table. A wood fire had been kindled on the hearth, but the windows and the glass door of the conservatory were open. Dora sat in her low carved chair with her lap full of silks and crewels. "I wanted to get away. I think your father saw that at last, for he set me free. I am afraid he thought me very inattentive," replied Garth, taking up his favorite position against the mantel-piece. He was still a little flushed, more from that smile than the Hermitage, and his eyes had a quick excited gleam in them. Dora understood it all perfectly, but she was quite mistress of the situation. Woman-like, she felt a little triumph in the exercise of her power. "If I were to yield another hair's-breadth there is no telling what the foolish fellow would do," she thought, not without a quickening of the pulse under those intent looks. The danger had a subtle sweetness even for her, though she was too self-controlled to be swayed by it. "Do sit down; you are so tall that it quite makes me ache to look up at you," she said, with that pretty attempt at a pout; "and then I want to speak to you seriously." Garth might be pardoned if he took that petulant command as an invitation to draw his chair rather closely. But though Dora saw her mistake she went on calmly, quite ignoring the near neighborhood of the infatuated young man. "When one sees a thing clearly it is always best to speak of it," began Dora, busily sorting her crewels, and making believe not to notice that Garth had his elbow on the back of her chair. "Langley is too lenient, and then Miss Cosie is not one for lecturing; but still some one ought to speak." "On what subject?" demanded Garth absently. He was wondering how he ought to begin. "Why, on the subject of Miss Marriott's dress, of course," returned Dora briskly and with emphasis. "If no one will speak, neither Langley nor Miss Cosie, and then Cathy is such a child, it seems to me as though I ought not to keep silence." "Miss Marriott's dress!" interrupted Garth in an astonished voice. "Why, Dora, what can you be meaning? The subject has nothing to do with us--with you and me--at all."