's the pity,' added Demi, in a low tone, as he stared intently at
the book-case, though he couldn't read a title.

'Now, there is a girl after my own heart. Pretty, well-bred,
well-educated, and yet domestic, a real companion as well as help-meet
for some good and intelligent man. I hope she will find one.'

'So do I,' muttered Demi.

Mrs Meg had taken up her work again, and was surveying a half-finished
buttonhole with so much interest that her son's face escaped her eye. He
shed a beaming smile upon the rows of poets, as if even in their glass
prison they could sympathize and rejoice with him at the first rosy dawn
of the great passion which they knew so well. But Demi was a wise youth,
and never leaped before looking carefully. He hardly knew his own heart
yet, and was contented to wait till the sentiment, the fluttering of
those folded wings he began to feel, should escape from the chrysalis
and be ready to soar away in the sunshine to seek and claim its lovely
mate. He had said nothing; but the brown eyes were eloquent, and there
was an unconscious underplot to all the little plays he and Alice Heath
acted so well together. She was busy with her books, bound to graduate
with high honours, and he was trying to do the same in that larger
college open to all, and where each man has his own prize to win or
lose. Demi had nothing but himself to offer and, being a modest youth,
considered that a poor gift till he had proved his power to earn his
living, and the right to take a woman's happiness into his keeping.

No one guessed that he had caught the fever except sharp-eyed Josie, and
she, having a wholesome fear of her brother--who could be rather awful
when she went too far--wisely contented herself with watching him like a
little cat, ready to pounce on the first visible sign of weakness. Demi
had taken to playing pensively upon his flute after he was in his
room for the night, making this melodious friend his confidante, and
breathing into it all the tender hopes and fears that filled his heart.
Mrs Meg, absorbed in domestic affairs, and Daisy, who cared for no music
but Nat's violin, paid no heed to these chamber concerts, but Josie
always murmured to herself, with a naughty chuckle, 'Dick Swiveller is
thinking of his Sophy Wackles,' and bided her time to revenge certain
wrongs inflicted upon her by Demi, who always took Daisy's side when she
tried to curb the spirits of her unruly little sister.

This evening s