r face to her father. Something she
sees in that vague but kindly man checks her enthusiasm for the
moment; a thought but half defined, a suspicion, disgraceful if true,
crosses her brain and fills her with indignation.

"Papa! Have you been listening?" she asks, in her sternest tones.

"Listening, my dear? Of course I have. Yes, certainly, with all my
might," returns he, with unusual and therefore doubtful alacrity. As a
matter of fact, I don't think much would be said about his
"distinguished answering" were he to be examined in the letter just
read; but all the more for this reason does he assume an air of
surprise at Clarissa's question, and covers himself with an expression
of injured innocence. Unfortunately for him, however, Miss Peyton is a
person not to be done.

"No, you have not," she says, severe but calm. "You have not heard a
single syllable. Your mind was full of that miserable paper all the
time, and I am positive you were putting together some silly speech
that you imagine would electrify those absurd men in the House of
Commons."

"I don't think it was a very silly speech, my dear Clarissa,"
remonstrates Mr. Peyton, feebly.

"Oh, then you do acknowledge you were miles away in thought," says
Clarissa, triumphant, if disgusted.

"My dear girl, how you do misjudge me!" protests poor Mr. Peyton, at
his wits' end. "I assure you, I was all attention to that very
excellent letter from beginning to end."

"Were you?" returns she, sweetly. "Then, of course, you can tell me
what was the last word."

She has placed her elbows on the table, and has let her pretty face
sink into the palms of her hands, and is now regarding her father with
a smile, half mocking, half malicious.

"The last word! Oh, nonsense, my dear Cis! who ever remembered the
last word of anything, unless it happened to be 'The Burial of Sir
John Moore,' or 'Beautiful Star,' or something that way? But I know
your letter was all about a young woman who has got herself into a
mess and wants to come to you now as maid or laundress. But there is
always danger in that sort of thing, you know, and you mightn't like
it afterwards: and----"

"Oh, what an engrossing speech that imaginary one of yours must have
been!" says Clarissa, with a little distracted shake of her head. "I
knew you were in the room, didn't I? No, no, no, you are altogether
wrong: this is no letter from maid or laundress, but from Georgie
Broughton. (You must remember her