"I would never call a picture of yours 'jolly' again. Had Rubens any daughters, I wonder?--surely with two or three wives he could scarcely escape daughters; and were they hateful, pert creatures like me, and did they call that wonderful picture he painted for the Arquebusiers 'jolly,' if there was any Flemish equivalent for that horrid word? I know how horrible it is now, since"--"since I've heard Mr. Lobyer use it," Miss Crawford had been about to say; but she pulled herself up suddenly, and continued, "since I've heard it worn threadbare by all kinds of people. Oh, papa," she cried with sudden enthusiasm, "I know what a great man you are, and how proud I ought to be of being able to call myself your daughter! I do know that, though I seem so vain and frivolous: and I know that your 'Aspasia' is the greatest picture that ever was painted--'bar none,' as Mr. Lobyer would say." The little bit of slang escaped poor Flo's lips in the midst of her sentiment; but the painter was too deeply moved to be cognizant of the vile phrase which concluded his daughter's exordium. He took her up in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "My dearest girl," he said, with an assumed gaiety, "we do not expect to find the wisdom of all the sages under these crinkled golden locks; and if you have called my pictures 'jolly,' I am sure the epithet is infinitely more civil than many my critics have applied to them. Besides, you are to be as much my daughter in the future as you have been in the past, and I shall expect Mrs. Lobyer to be as deeply interested in my work as Miss Crawford has been. And now, dear, come into the drawing-room and sing to me. We must not prove ourselves unworthy of the blessing of Aunt Jane's absence by lapsing into melancholy." Upon this Florence embraced her father, and protested vehemently that he was the best and dearest of created beings. And then before he had time to recover himself, she buried her face in his breast, and sobbed aloud. "Papa, tell me that you don't think me a wicked mercenary creature," she cried; "pray, pray tell me that you don't think I'm that." * * * * * Who shall find words wherewith to set down the glory of that ceremonial which was performed on the following day at a fashionable temple? a temple the priests of which were broadly accused of Puseyite tendencies, and on whose communion-table there glittered brazen candlesticks. All the nursemaids of the neighbourhood dragged their charges to behold the splendour of Miss Crawford's bridal train; and the fashionable reporters were more than usually grandiloquent in their descriptions of the wedding. Nevertheless it was very much like other weddings, except in the one grand fact that the bride shed no tears. "I didn't cry, you see, papa," she said, when she found herself for a few moments alone with her father after the ceremony. "I feel myself quite a woman of fashion."