Under False Pretences. Sergeant Adeline

did you do with him?" asked Percival, after a moment's pause.

      "I walked up and down the room. He went to sleep in my arms."

      "Of course, you tired yourself out with that great, heavy boy!"

      "You don't know how light little Jack is; you cannot have taken him in your arms for a long time, Percival," said she, in a hurt tone; "and I am very strong. My hands ought to be of some use to me, if my brain is not."

      "Your brain is strong enough, and your will is strong enough for anything, but your hands——"

      "Are they to be useless?"

      "Yes, they are to be useless," he said, "and somebody else must work for you."

      "That arrangement would not suit me. I like to work for myself," she answered, smiling.

      They were standing on opposite sides of a small table on which the portfolio of drawings rested. Percival was holding up one side of the portfolio, and she was placing the sketches one by one upon each other.

      "Do you know what you look like?" said Percival, suddenly. There was a thrill of pleasurable excitement in his tone, a glow of ardour in his dark eyes. "You look like a tall, white lily to-night, with your white dress and your gleaming hair. The pure white of the petals and the golden heart of the lily have found their match."

      "I am recompensed for the trouble I took in changing my dress this evening," said Elizabeth, glancing down at it complacently. "I did not expect that it would bring me so poetic a compliment. Thank you, Percival."

      "'Consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin,'" quoted Percival, recklessly. "Why should you toil and spin?—a more beautiful lily than any one of them. If Solomon in all his glory was not equal to those Judean lilies, then I may safely say that the Queen of Sheba would be beaten outright by our Queen Elizabeth, with her white dress and her golden locks!"

      "Mrs. Heron would say you were profane," said Elizabeth, tranquilly. "These comparisons of yours don't please me exactly, Percival; they always remind me of the flowery leaders in some of the evening papers, and make me remember that you are a journalist. They have a professional air."

      "A professional air!" repeated Percival, in disgust. He let the lid of the portfolio fall with a bang upon the table. Several of the sketches flew wildly over the floor, and Elizabeth turned to him with a reproachful look, but she had no time to protest, for in that moment he had seized her hands and drawn her aside with him to a sofa that stood on one side of the room.

      "You shall not answer me in that way," he said, half-irritated, half-amused, and wholly determined to have his way. "You shall sit down there and listen to me in a serious spirit, if you can. No, don't shake your head and look at me so mockingly. It is time that we understood each other, and I don't mean another night to pass over our heads without some decision being arrived at. Elizabeth, you must know that you have my happiness in your hands. I can't live without you. I can't bear to see you making yourself a slave to everybody, with no one to love you, no one to work for you and save you from anxiety and care. Let me work for you, now, dearest; be my wife, and I will see that you have your proper place, and that you are tended and cared for as a woman ought to be."

      Elizabeth had withdrawn her hands from his; she even turned a little pale. He fancied that the tears stood in her eyes.

      "Oh," she said, "I wish you had not said this to me, Percival."

      It was easy for him to slip down from his low seat to a footstool, and there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his handsome, dark eyes plead for him.

      "Why should I not have said it?" he breathed, softly. "Has it not been the dream of my life for months?—I might almost say for years? I loved you ever since you first came amongst us, Elizabeth, years ago."

      "Did you, indeed?" said Elizabeth. A light of humour showed itself through the tears that had come into her eyes. An amused, reluctant smile curved the corners of her mouth. "What, when I was an awkward, clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as I remember your calling me one day after I had done something exceptionally stupid? And when you played practical jokes upon me—hung my doll up by its hair, and made me believe that there was a ghost in the attics—did you care for me then? Oh, no, Percival, you forget! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted."

      "It's no laughing matter, I assure you, Elizabeth," said Percival, laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at the same time. "I am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest; and I can't believe that my stupid jokes, when I was a mere boy, have had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me now."

      "No," said Elizabeth. "They make no difference; but—I'm very sorry, Percival—I really don't think that it would do."

      "What would not do? what do you mean?" said Percival, frowning.

      "This arrangement; this—this—proposition of yours. Nobody would like it."

      "Nobody could object. I have a perfect right to marry if I choose, and whom I choose. I am independent of my father."

      "You could not marry yet, Percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone.

      "I could—if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. If you loved me, Elizabeth, you would not mind."

      "I am afraid I do not love you—in that way," said Elizabeth, meditatively. "No, it would never do. I never dreamt of such a thing."

      "Nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined Percival, with a short laugh. "The dreaming can be left to me. The question is rather whether you will think of it now—consider it a little, I mean. It seems to be a new idea to you—though I must say I wonder that you have not seen how much I loved you, Elizabeth! I am willing to wait until you have grown used to it. I cannot believe that you do not care for me! You would not be so cruel; you must love me a little—just a very little, Elizabeth."

      "Well, I do," said Elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. "I do love you—more than a little—as I love you all. You have been so good to me that I could not help caring for you—in spite of the doll and the ghost in the attic." Her smile grew gravely mischievous as she finished the sentence.

      "Oh, that is not what I want," cried Percival, starting up from his lowly position at her feet. "That is not the kind of love that I am asking for at all."

      "I am afraid you will get no other," said Elizabeth, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. "I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Percival."

      "Your love is not given to anyone else?" he demanded, fiercely.

      "You have no right to ask. But if it is a satisfaction to you, I can assure you that I have never cared for anyone in that way. I do not know what it means," said Elizabeth, looking directly before her. "I have never been able to understand."

      "Let me make you understand," murmured Percival, his momentary anger melting before the complete candour of her eyes. "Let me teach you to love, Elizabeth."

      She was silent—irresolute, as it appeared to him.

      "You would learn very easily," said he. "Try—let me try."

      "I don't think I could be taught," she answered, slowly. "And really I am not sure that I care to learn."

      "That is simply because you do not know your own heart," said Percival, dogmatically. "Trust me, and wait awhile. I will have no answer now, Elizabeth. I will ask you again."

      "And suppose my answer is the same?"

      "It won't be the same," said Percival, in a masterful sort of way. "You will understand by-and-bye."

      She did not see the fire in his eyes, nor the look of passionate yearning that crossed his face as he stood beside her, or she would scarcely have been surprised when he bent down suddenly and pressed his lips to her forehead. She started to her feet, colouring vividly and angrily. "How dare you, Percival!—-" she began.