'He says when he's quite settled,' she resumed presently, 'we're to go and have supper with him for a house-warming.' Lucy looked ready to cry again. 'He couldn't ask me--of course he couldn't,' she said, indistinctly. 'Dora--Dora!' 'Well? Oh, don't mix up my silks, Lucy; I shall never get them right again.' Lucy reluctantly put them down. 'Do you think, Dora, Mr. Grieve cares anything at all about me?' she said at last, hurrying out the words, and looking Dora in the face, very red and bold. Dora laughed outright. 'I knew you were going to ask that!' she said. 'Perhaps I've been asking myself!' Lucy said nothing, but the tears dropped again down her cheeks and on to her small quivering hands--all the woman awake in her. Dora pushed her frame away, and put her arm round her cousin, quite at a loss what to say for the best. Another woman would have told Lucy plumply that she was a little fool; that in the first place young Grieve had never shown any signs of making love to her at all; and that, in the second, if he had, her father would never let her marry him without a struggle which nobody could suppose Lucy capable of waging with a man like Purcell. It was all a silly fancy, the whim of a green girl, which would make her miserable for nothing. Mrs. Alderman Head, for instance, Dora's chaperon for the Institute dance, the sensible, sharp-tongued wife of a wholesale stationer in Market Street, would certainly have taken this view of the matter, and communicated it to Lucy with no more demur than if you had asked her, say, for her opinion on the proper season for bottling gooseberries. But Dora, whose inmost being was one tremulous surge of feeling and emotion, could not approach any matter of love and marriage without a thrill, without a sense of tragedy almost. Besides, like Lucy, she was very young still--just twenty--and youth answers to youth. 'You know Uncle Tom wouldn't like it a bit, Lucy,' she began in her perplexity. 'I don't care!' cried Lucy, passionately. 'Girls can't marry to please their fathers. I should have to wait, I suppose. I would get my own way somehow. But what's the good of talking about it, Dora? I'm sick of thinking about it--sick of everything. He'll marry somebody else--I know he will--and I shall break my heart, or--' 'Marry somebody else, too,' suggested Dora slyly. Lucy drew herself angrily away, and had to be soothed into forgiving her cousin. The child had, in fact, thought and worried herself by now into such a sincere belief in her own passion, that there was nothing for it but to take it seriously. Dora yielded herself to Lucy's tears and her own tenderness. She sat pondering. Then, suddenly, she said something very different from what Lucy expected her to say. 'Oh! if I could get him to go and talk to Father Russell! He's so wonderful with young men.' Her hand dropped on to her knee; she looked away from Lucy out of the window, her sweet face one longing.