Leaving the placidly happy old man comfortably ensconced, newspaper in hand, in his favourite arm-chair by the wide open French window of the library, Arthur Vavasour went in search of his betrothed. He knew as well almost as if the interview were over what would take place between him and that tender, unassuming, rather commonplace little girl (as I am afraid he called her) who was waiting for him in the magnificent conservatory, book in hand, but without a passing idea, poor child! save of the man who gave her in return so little of his love, so small a portion of his waking as well as sleeping thoughts. There was none--and the want in _her_ case was a serious misfortune--of the “delightfully capricious,” the “charmingly various,” the “tantalisingly mysterious,” in the character of Sophy Duberly. Her nature, which was simple and guileless as a child’s, could be read at a glance in the soft brown eyes, honest, tender, and trusting--eyes which are rarely to be seen in a human countenance, but which those who are addicted to canine friendships can recollect in the head of more than one faithful beast which has lain at his feet, and been unto him as a brother. Coquetry, that useful woman’s weapon, was an utterly unknown “arm” to this simple-hearted heiress. The most practised teacher in the female art of self-defence would have failed to make Sophy understand the handling of that perilous instrument. Her “yea” was “yea,” and her “nay” “nay,” and somewhat “yea,” “nay,” it is to be feared that her variety-loving _intended_ sometimes found her.