"Mr. Glover?" he said, interrupting her. "Dearest Maisrie, I don’t mind if you were to go walking with twenty Mr. Glovers!—I don’t mind that now. It is the sunlight that is of importance; it is getting you into the sunlight that is everything. And if Mr. Glover asks you to go driving with him in the afternoon, of course you must go!—it will interest you to see the crowd and the carriages, and it will keep you in the fresh air. Oh, yes, if I’m along in the King’s Road this afternoon, I shall look out for you; and if you should happen to see me, then just remember that you have given me your sandal-wood necklace, and that I am the proudest and happiest person in the whole town of Brighton. Why, of course you must go out, both morning and afternoon," he continued, in this gay and generous fashion, as they were mounting the steps towards the upper thoroughfare. "Sunlight is just all the world, for flowers, and pretty young ladies, and similar things; and now you’re away from the London fogs, you must make the best of it. It is very wise of your grandfather to lay aside his work while the fine weather lasts. Now be a good, sensible girl, and go out at eleven o’clock." "Vincent," she said, "if I do go with grandfather this morning, will you come down the town, and join us?" "Oh, well," said he, rather hesitating, "I—I do not wish to inflict myself on anybody. But don’t mistake, Maisrie: I shall be quite happy, even if I see you walking up and down with the purveyor of bad sherry. It won’t vex me in the least: something you told me this morning has made me proof against all that. The important thing is that you should keep in the sunlight!" "I ask you to come, Vincent." "Oh, very well, certainly," said he—not knowing what dark design was in her mind. He was soon to discover. When he left her in St. James’s Street, whither she had gone to get the morning newspapers for her grandfather, he went back to the hotel, and to his own room, to take out this priceless treasure of a necklace she had bestowed on him, and to wonder how best he could make of it a cunning talisman that he could have near his heart night and day. And also he set to work to sketch out designs for the little breast-pin he meant to have made, with its transverse row of rubies or sapphires, with its white dove in the centre. An inscription? That was hardly needed: there was a sufficient understanding between him and her. And surely this was a betrothal, despite her timid shrinking back? The avowal of that morning had been more to him than words; during that brief moment it seemed as if Heaven shone in her eyes; and as if he could see there, as in a vision, all the years to come—all the years that he and she were to be together—shining with a soft celestial radiance. And would not this small white dove convey its message of peace?—when it lay on her bosom, "so light, so light."