flapping and tearing at Theodora's cloak, like the
wind in the fable, trying to whirl her off her feet, and making vehement
efforts to wrench the umbrella out of Percy's hand. A buffet with wind
and weather was a frolic which she particularly enjoyed, running on
before the blast, then turning round to walk backwards and recover
breath to laugh at him toiling with the umbrella. Never had she looked
brighter, her dark eyes, lately so sad and soft, now sparkling and
dancing with mirth, her brown cheek glowing with fresh red from the rain
and wind that had loosened her hair, and was sporting with a long
black tress that streamed beyond her bonnet, and fluttered over her
face--life, strength, and activity in every limb, and her countenance
beaming with sportiveness and gaiety, the more charming because so
uncommon. It was a rare chance to catch Theodora at play.

'Ha! you'll be beat! You will have to shut up the miserable invention
unknown to our forefathers.'

'Not I. I shall not give up the distinction between man and beast in the
rain.'

'Man! Why even ants carry parasols.'

'That is in the sun. Parasols belong to an epoch of earlier
civilization. Vide Ninevite carvings--Persian satraps!'

'So you reduce yourself to a Persian satrap!'

'No; it was reserved for modern times to discover the true application
of the umbrella. Were you rational enough to come back in the carriage?'

'No, indeed. To do justice to Violet, she would have come down in it, if
I had not forgotten to tell her of it.'

'I am glad you do her justice for once.'

She would not answer, and took advantage of another combat with the wind
to cover her silence.

'Theodora,' said he, abruptly, 'I cannot help it; I must say it!'

'Well?'

'I do not think you feel as you ought towards your brother's wife.'

'John has told you this?'

'No; I have observed it. You had set your affections on Arthur; and
thinking he had thrown himself away, you do not resist the common
propensity to hate a sister-in-law.'

'You like to provoke me,' said Theodora; 'but,' and her voice trembled,
'it is unkind to bring this up--the pain and grief of my life, when I
was happy and forgetful for once.'

'Far, far from unkindness. It is because I cannot bear to see you
unhappy.'

'I trusted no one saw that.'

'I have known you too long, and thought of you too much, not to be
grieved at the sight of your forced spirits and suppressed sorrow.'

It would have angered