feminine names. The theme appeared novel and
delicious, fitted to the season and the hour. But the hardship was, that
Richard could choose none from the number; all were the same to him; he
loved them all.

"Don't you really prefer the 'Cl's'?" said Ralph, persuasively.

"Not better than the names ending in 'a' and 'y,' Richard replied,
wishing he could, for Ralph was evidently ahead of him.

"Come under these trees," said Ralph. And under the trees Ralph
unbosomed. His name was down for the army: Eton was quitted for ever. In
a few months he would have to join his regiment, and before he left he
must say goodbye to his friends.... Would Richard tell him Mrs. Forey's
address? he had heard she was somewhere by the sea. Richard did not
remember the address, but said he would willingly take charge of any
letter and forward it.

Ralph dived his hand into his pocket. "Here it is. But don't let anybody
see it."

"My aunt's name is not Clare," said Richard, perusing what was composed
of the exterior formula. "You've addressed it to Clare herself."

That was plain to see.

"Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish," Richard continued
in a low tone, transferring the names, and playing on the musical strings
they were to him. Then he said: "Names of ladies! How they sweeten their
names!"

He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything further he said
nothing, but bade the good fellow good-bye, jumped into his boat, and
pulled down the tide. The moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the
banks, Richard perused the address. For the first time it struck him that
his cousin Clare was a very charming creature: he remembered the look of
her eyes, and especially the last reproachful glance she gave him at
parting. What business had Ralph to write to her? Did she not belong to
Richard Feverel? He read the words again and again: Clare Doria Forey.
Why, Clare was the name he liked best--nay, he loved it. Doria, too--she
shared his own name with him. Away went his heart, not at a canter now,
at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt too weak to pull.
Clare Doria Forey--oh, perfect melody! Sliding with the tide, he heard it
fluting in the bosom of the hills.

When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates
are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.

Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below,
lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anch