"She likes me, too, and I have teased the gallant captain considerably. Oh, the drives I have had with the fair Cordelia, the gas-light flirtations; the morning strolls to the capitol; the art-gallery; everywhere, in short, where you went with the major. I am not sure but she would throw him over for me altogether." Her heart sinks within her. Has his fickle love turned from her so soon to this "fair Cordelia?" Better so, perhaps, for her in the end; but now--oh! she has never loved him so well as at this moment, sitting beside her in his dusk patrician beauty, with a certain odd earnestness underlying his flippant manner. "Mrs. Conway is well, I hope?" she says, to change that painful conversation. "Is well?--yes, and misses you amid the gay scenes of the capital. What have _you_ been doing secluded here in your quiet home, little saint?" "Oh! nothing particularly." "You have not been falling in love, have you?" "Why?" with an irrepressible blush. "I wanted to know--that is all. Brownie, Aunt Conway, and I are going abroad this spring to stay, oh, ever so long." He is watching her narrowly. She knows it, and changes her sudden start into one of pretty affected surprise. "Oh, indeed! Will wedding cards and the 'fair Cordelia' bear you company?" "Not if some one else will. Brownie, cannot you guess why I have come here this evening?" his voice growing eagerly earnest, a genuine love and earnestness shining in his eyes. "To make a New Year's call, I guess," she answers, with innocent unconsciousness in her large dark eyes, and the faintest dimples around her lips. "Guess again, Brownie?" "I cannot; I have not the faintest idea," turning slightly from him. "Then, Brownie," taking her unwilling hand in his. "I have come to ask you for a New Year's gift." A scarlet geranium is fastened in with the lace at her throat. She plucks it out and holds it toward him with a mischievous smile. "Will you take this? I am sorry it is all I have to offer." He takes the hand that holds the flower and puts it to his lips. "It is all I ask; so your heart comes with it." Vainly she tries to draw back; he holds the small hand tighter, bending till his breath floats over her forehead. "Lulu, I did not come here for the gift of a hot-house flower, though coming from you it is dearer than would be a very flower from those botanical gardens that are the glory of Washington. I wanted a rarer flower--even yourself." Her face is hidden in one small hand. In low tones she answers: "I thought this matter was settled long ago. Did I not tell you no?" There is a long pause. Presently he answers, with a wondrous patience for him: