t! Did she do it herself, or who hanged
her?"

"Her picture, you know," says Scrope, with a laugh. "To hear that she
had made away with herself would be too good to be true. She looks
absolutely lovely in this picture I speak of, almost too fine for this
work-a-day world; yet my father always told me she was ugly as a
nightmare. Never believe in paint."

"Talking of Scrope," says Clarissa, "do you know, though I have been
home now for some months, I have never been through it since I was a
child? I have rather a passion for revisiting old haunts, and I want
to see it again. That round room in the tower used to be my special
joy. Will you show it to me?--some day?--any day?"

"What day will you come?" asks Scrope, thinking it unnecessary to
express the gladness it will be to him to point put the beauties of
his home to this new-old friend,--this friend so full of fresh and
perfect beauty, yet so replete with all the old graces and witcheries
of the child he once so fondly loved.

"I am just the least little bit in the world afraid of Miss Scrope,"
says Clarissa, with an irrepressible smile. "So I shall prefer to come
some time when you are in. On Thursday, if that will suit you. Or
Friday; or, if not then, why, Saturday."

"Make it Thursday. That day comes first," said Scrope.

"Now, that is a very pretty speech," declares Miss Peyton, vast
encouragement in her tone. "Eastern air, in spite of its drawbacks,
has developed your intellect, Jim. Hasn't it?"

The old familiar appellation, and the saucy smile that has always in
it something of tenderness, smites some half-forgotten chord in
Scrope's heart. He makes no reply, but gazes with an earnestness that
almost amounts to scrutiny at Clarissa, as she stands in the open
window leaning against a background of ivy, through which pale
rose-buds are struggling into view. Within her slender fingers the
knitting-needles move slowly, glinting and glistening in the sun's hot
rays, until they seem to emit tiny flashes as they cross and recross
each other. Her eyes are downcast, the smile still lingers on her
lips, her whole attitude, and her pretty graceful figure, clad in its
white gown, is

"Like a picture rich and rare."

"On Thursday, then, I shall see you," he says, not because he has
tired of looking at her, but because she has raised her eyes and is
evidently wondering at his silence. "Good-by."

"Good-by," says Clarissa, genially. Then she lays down the negle