She gave him one long glance, and then"--but Ted never finished his ridiculous effusion, for in another moment Garth had pinned him in his powerful grasp, and stretched him prone and struggling on the floor. "And there shall you lie until you have promised not to spout any more nonsense," was the inexorable mandate of his tyrant. "Floored by fate, and crushed by the gigantic hoof of destiny, I submit. 'More kicks than half-pence,' quoth he, under the healing (heeling) process; but what boots such trifles to the stalwart heart of a young Briton. Alas, thy sole is open and clear to me, my brother, and the footprint of ignoble passion is stamped upon it." "Pax, pax," groaned Garth. "Oh, leave him alone, you are only making him worse," laughed Queenie; "if he sees nobody heeds his nonsense he will soon leave off." "I feel like the gladiator, butchered to make a Clayton holiday; my breast-bone is staved in by the barbarian. 'Dying, we salute thee, Caesar.' Well, it is of 'no consequence,' as Toots remarks." "There, get up and behave yourself," interrupted Garth, with a final kick; "and now, to get rid of this foolish fellow, I vote that some of us take a turn in the plane-tree walk. Come, Miss Marriott, you and Cathy put on your hats." But Cathy, who was in a curious mood to-night, and had done nothing but sigh and interlace her fingers restlessly in the twilight, muttered something about Miss Cosie and the Vicarage, and vanished from the room; and so it came to pass that Queenie found herself gravely pacing up and down the plane-tree walk by Garth's side. Naturally as it had come about--for no one else had volunteered to accompany them--the novelty of the circumstance caused them both a little embarrassment; and, by some curious physiological coincidence, each fell to thinking of Dora Cunningham. Garth smoked his cigar meditatively, and cast curious side-long glances at the slender black figure beside him. Visions of a white dress and golden hair still haunted him. Why was he shy and silent all at once? had he anything in common with this grave, brown-eyed girl? He was wondering, if she were Dora would he have found anything to say to her? He was sorry to think that this was Miss Marriott's last night. Sorry! yes; it made him feel all at once as though the old house had grown suddenly dull and empty; and yet if it had been Dora-- "Miss Marriott, how is it that you and Miss Cunningham don't hit it off better?" he said, so abruptly that Queenie started and changed color. She was feeling very heavy-hearted, poor little soul, to think it was her last night at Church-Stile House; and how she would miss the slow, even tramp of Garth's footsteps under her windows, and the red end of his cigar emerging from the trees every ten minutes. She had often sat and watched it with unconscious interest even to herself; she was loath to part with that, and his cheery good morning when she looked out to smell the roses.