The position of father confessor to an erratic young lady like Mabel is not a very difficult one, for her confessions are very innocent, although she sometimes thinks she is making terrible avowals, but they are at least exceedingly amusing. She flirts for pure fun and sport, there is no question of heart in it. Her heart she keeps for something more serious, though she does not know that—she is not yet awake to it, and I doubt if she thinks at all seriously of the possibilities of love and marriage. Certainly at the present time she has no desire to be married, although I know one or two goodly youths who entertain hopes of her. Not that she gives them any encouragement; on the contrary, she delights to tantalise them, and which of them, if any, will be the successful rival I scarcely think she quite knows herself, though one may guess. However, at present she only regards the tender passion from the point of view of entertainment, and as accessory to the more serious pursuits of riding, boating, tennis or dancing. These are the business of her life, and she will tire herself utterly in pursuing them. Flirting is merely a relaxation. To see Mabel at her best, you must be with her up the river. You must see the dexterous manner in which she handles her canoe, or the graceful skill with which she propels her punt. An artist who should make his happy sketching-ground that particular part of the Thames where Mabel spends the summer months, and should persuade her to submit to being frequently sketched, might bring away a veritable wealth of pictorial material. He would have to be up very early in the morning to see her, in her dainty red bathing costume, take her matutinal dive from the landing stage opposite the cottage where she stays—though he had better not let her know he is within sight, for her swimming is the admiration of only very privileged connoisseurs. Then he should see her paddling her canoe up stream, her red shirt and the crimson cushions making a brilliant note of colour against the dark green of the foliage on the banks. If he watch till she turns round the bend near the lock, he will see some canoeing of no amateurish kind, for those rapids make heavy demands on the pluck and skill of the fair canoeist. That is the place to sketch her, for it is a ready-made picture. Then let him see her, later in the morning, mounting her horse for a canter across country, with so sure a seat and such a command of the animal, one would not be surprised to see her flying over any five-barred gate. What a look of pride is on the face of the young cavalry officer who rides by her side; for not another fellow in the regiment ever rode out with a finer horsewoman, or a prettier girl to boot.