Now Mabel takes her punt up a picturesque bit of backwater, where the trees stretch their branches across from bank to bank and clasp each other, and the water-rats are boldly sportive, and here she stops and listens to the many-voiced silence, forgetful of her companion. But the spell of the hour and the river is upon him, and in his boyish blundering way he blurts out his love and asks Mabel to marry him—which is just the last thing he should have done under the circumstances, if he wanted to remain “chums” with her. As it is, he puts her out of humour, and she makes for home as speedily as possible. Then these two do not speak all the evening; she devotes herself to somebody else, and he is very wretched. Next day she does not ride with him, nor does she take him out in her punt. At last he has to beg her forgiveness, which she grants on condition that he never talks “nonsense” again. But they have not been quite on the same frank terms since, and I hardly think they ever will be again unless he remains constant for a little while—say two or three years, perhaps—and bides his time to ask her again. There is a sweet and tender strain of womanliness in Mabel’s nature, and when, as her amateur father confessor, I questioned her about her obvious difference with the young soldier, and she told me the facts, I fancied I recognised a tone of pity not unmixed with pleasure, which augured well for the boy’s chances. She is a wilful, erratic, delightful girl now; and I feel sure she will make a splendid woman. Cares and sorrows will overtake her soon enough, and force upon her the serious side of life, and her womanhood will not fail to rise to the occasion. In the meanwhile, let her continue to regard the world as a playground, where all is sweetness and light and pleasure. Let her retain her illusions as long as possible, and enjoy the delights of girlhood. Let her, in fact, extract all possible pleasure from any sport, any amusement. It will all react beneficially on her nature, and, when she awakens to the responsibilities of life, she will bear them all the more cheerfully that her youth has been happy and uncrossed and “awfully jolly.” _THE NUN_ [Illustration]