of gravel walk--she at his right side, with her right hand
in his and her left clinging by his arm, and nestling close by his side,
and leading him up to the house like a beloved captive.

And so at breakfast he narrated all his adventures, and told who were at
the dinner party, and described two fine ladies' dresses--for the doctor
had skill in millinery, though it was as little known as Don Quixote's
talent for making bird-cages and tooth-picks, confided, as we remember,
in one of his conversations with honest Sancho, under the cork trees. He
told her his whole innocent little budget of gossip, in his own simple,
pleasant way; and his little Lily sat looking on her beloved old man,
and smiling, but saying little, and her eyes often filling with tears;
and he looked, when he chanced to see it--wistfully and sadly for an
instant, but he made no remark.

And sometime after, as she happened to pass the study-door, he called
her--'Little Lily, come here.' And in she came; and there was the
doctor, all alone and erect before his bookshelves, plucking down a
volume here, and putting up one there, and--

'Shut the door, little Lily,' said he gently and cheerily, going on with
his work. 'I had a letter yesterday evening, my darling, from Captain
Devereux, and he tells me that he's very much attached to you; and I
don't wonder at his being in love with little Lily--he could not help
it.' And he laughed fondly, and was taking down a volume that rather
stuck in its place, so he could not turn to look at her; for, the truth
was, he supposed she was blushing, and could not bear to add to her
confusion; and he, though he continued his homely work, and clapped the
sides of his books together, and blew on their tops, and went so simply
and plainly to the point, was flushed and very nervous himself; for,
though he thought of her marriage at some time or another as a thing
that was to be, still it had seemed a long way off. And now, now it was
come, and little Lily was actually going to be married--going away--and
her place would know her no more; and her greeting and her music would
be missed in the evening, and the garden lonely, and the Elms dark,
without Lily.

'And he wants to marry my little Lily, if she'll have him. And what does
my darling wish me to say to him?' and he spoke very cheerily.

'My darling, _you're_ my darling; and your little Lily will never, never
leave you. She'll stay.' And here the little speech stopped,