m, they fell upon Lord Garle, who was still talking with Decima and
Lucy.

"Which of the two young ladies makes the viscount's attraction, Mr.
Verner?"

Lionel smiled. "They do not take me into their confidence, sir; any one
of the three."

"I am sure it is not Decima, papa," spoke up Sibylla. "She's as cold as
a stone. I won't answer for its not being Lucy Tempest. Lord Garle comes
here a good deal, and he and Lucy seem great friends. I often think he
comes for Lucy."

"Then there's little doubt upon the point," observed the doctor, coming
to a more rapid conclusion than the words really warranted. "Time was,
Mr. Verner, when I thought that young lady would have been your wife."

"Who?" asked Lionel. But that he only asked the question in his
confusion, without need, was evident; the tell-tale flush betrayed it.
His pale face had turned red; red to the very roots of his hair.

"In those old days when you were ill, lying here, and Miss Tempest was
so much with you, I fancied I saw the signs of a mutual attachment,"
continued the doctor. "I conclude I must have been mistaken."

"Little doubt of that, doctor," lightly answered Lionel, recovering his
equanimity, though he could not yet recover his disturbed complexion,
and laughing as he spoke.

Sibylla's greedy ears had drunk up the words, her sharp eyes had caught
the conscious flush, and her jealous heart was making the most of it. At
that unfortunate moment, as ill-luck had it, Lucy brought up the basket
of cakes and held it out to Dr. West. Lionel rose to take it from her.

"I was taking your name in vain, Miss Tempest," said the complacent
doctor. "Did you hear me?"

"No," replied Lucy, smiling. "What about?"

"I was telling Mr. Verner that in the old days I had deemed his choice
was falling upon another, rather than my daughter. Do you remember,
young lady?--in that long illness of his?"

Lucy did remember. And the remembrance, thus called suddenly before her,
the words themselves, the presence of Lionel, all brought to her far
more emotion than had arisen to him. Her throat heaved as with a spasm,
and the startled colour dyed her face. Lionel saw it. Sibylla saw it.

"It proves to us how we may be mistaken, Miss Tempest," observed the
doctor, who, from that habit of his, already hinted at, of never looking
people in the face when he spoke to them, had failed to observe
anything. "I hear there is a probability of this fair hand being
appropriated by