THERE was no one in the drawing-room of 15 Bute Street when Mr Stevens was shown into it the following day. "The Miss Arbuthnots were engaged," the butler told him, "but would be down shortly." So Cyril was at liberty to pace up and down, and try quite to determine on a step he had almost made up his mind to take.

"Mr Stevens," the servant announced up-stairs to the young ladies of the house; and Cicely, at the words, with a pretty flush, ceased directing and exhorting the dressmaker, which was the business that at present occupied her, and looked with something that was almost like annoyance to the corner where Jessie was seated, for the purpose of giving her advice on the present difficult question with greater ease.

"Would you like me to go down alone?" questioned Jessie, mischievously. "If I do, he is not likely to stay nearly so long, and then I can return, and we can decide about this."

But Cicely made no further reply than "No, no; I will go down myself," accompanied by a look which suggested that, under the circumstances, Jessie need not trouble herself to accompany her.

But Jessie did not heed the look, and the two sisters went down together.

The room where Cyril Stevens was waiting was not the olive-green room where, one November morning six months ago, Philip Rayton had listened to the strains of "Home, sweet Home;" but though. not the same, it differed only in degree. The dull, grey-green walls did not, however, form such an incongruous background for tall, slight Cyril Stevens, with his nervous restless hands and delicate face, as it had done for broad-shouldered Philip Rayton.

Miss Arbuthnot, too, with her bright head, in her dress of dull peacock-blue, with its puffed sleeves and straight folds that were so rigidly artistic, made a pleasing centre-figure, Cyril Stevens thought; or, as he himself would have said, she harmonised well with the sad-coloured walls, the Japanese screens and fans, and other eighteenth-century surroundings -harmonised in a way that the sister in white serge, with pale sky-blue ribbons all about it, certainly did not. And if she failed to harmonise with the furniture, just as certainly did she fail with her companions. Not that that fact affected Jessie Arbuthnot much; indeed it may be questioned whether she

was in the least aware of her delinquencies; and here, where she was at home, she was not shy, whatever she might be abroad. So she sat down, despite her costume and herself being out of keeping with her surroundings, animate and inanimate, and began to conjure up small talk for Cyril's benefit. Balls, dinners, rides, drives, and various other forms of amusement were talked over and criticised, for Jessie was now come out," despite the very small show of interest shown by her listener-for Mr Stevens was not fond of young ladies in general, or, in fact, of any woman whose talk was of herself. But he was sustained in his small martyrdom by the consciousness of a graceful figure reclining in a wide arm-chair, and of two dark eyes now and again raised to his, which in those momentary glances said, as plainly as if they had spoken, "I feel for you; I know what this kind of talk must be to you;" for Miss Arbuthnot had very expressive eyes, and they served her in good stead on occasions, general conversation not being so easy to her as a tête-à-tête. And they soothed Cyril, partly by enlarging if that were possible-his own idea of his sufferings, and partly by the sympathy expressed in them, for sympathy in one form or another was almost a necessity of his existence.

But it was not decreed that Mr Stevens and Miss Arbuthnot should suffer thus for long, with no prospect of reward. There was a ring at the bell, and enter a servant with a message.

"Mrs White's compliments, and would Miss Jessie like a drive?" And Miss Jessie, to whom all the

sweets of life were still fresh and desirable, rose up willingly, her chatter hushed on the instant.

"You will excuse me, Mr Stevens, I am sure; and as to you, Cicely, I have no doubt you are quite willing I should have the treat;" whereat Miss Arbuthnot flushed a little guiltily, and then hastily exit the unharmonious element, with its bright, happy, girlish face, and its utterly inartistic arrangement of white serge and sky-blue ribbons, leaving a clear stage to the more serious actors.

For a few minutes after they were left alone neither of them spoke, but at length Cicely broke the silence by saying, as if in apology for her sister's sudden departure, "She is so young;" and she heaved a gentle little sigh as she spoke, which might have been interpreted to mean either pity or envy. Perhaps one great reason why, as a rule, others believed so in Cicely's little affectations was because she believed so in them herself. She did not examine her thoughts, feelings, or motives very deeply, but took them and believed in them just as they came uppermost.

Mr Stevens did not reply, as many a one might have done, that, after all, she was only two years. older than this sister whom she thus seemed to speak disparagingly of on account of her age, and that nineteen is not so very old. No; his sense of the ludicrous, like that of most people much wrapped up in themselves, was very small, and he made answer quite seriously, "She is young," in the tone of one willing, if possible, to find extenuating circumstances; and then, recalling the sympathising eyes

that had helped him to listen to Jessie's small talk, "You must find it trying at times not to have a more congenial companion."

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'Yes, indeed," said Cicely, leaning forward, and clasping her hands in that pretty un-English fashion habitual to her; "but then you see we cannot choose our sisters; and Jessie is a good girl at heart," she concluded, magnanimously, "though a little trying sometimes."

Not heeding her latter words, "A companion need not be a sister," Mr Stevens said; and then, without waiting an answering word, "Miss Arbuthnot,” he said, taking her two hands in his, "there is one who is nearer, dearer, than any sister." He paused, but there was no answer; only the bright head drooped, until the flower-like face was completely hidden. "Cicely, dear," the soft wooing voice went on," ever since I first saw you ever since that first evening at Miss Mainwaring's-I think I have loved you, have wished to make you my wife. And now tell me, dear," raising her soft face to his so as to read an answer in her eyes-"tell me, what is my fate to be?"

Small need of words. The answer was written there plainly in the blushing cheeks, in the halffrightened eyes, and Cyril asked no more, but drawing her towards him, pressed his first kiss on the red lips. "Say just once, 'I love you,"" he whispered a few moments later, as he stood with his arm about her, looking down at his newly-won treasure.

"Ah, Cyril, you know I do," she replied, lifting her head and looking at him steadfastly. "If you have admired me ever since the first day you saw