than David Carlyon and Malcolm
Herrick, and yet they were alike in this, that they each loved
Elizabeth with a profound and noble love.

"You are looking serious, dear," he said presently, as Elizabeth made a
pretence of sorting the silks of her embroidery. That little piece of
embroidery with its gay silken flowers became one of Elizabeth's
dearest relics. It was David who helped her choose the shades, who
insisted on a spray of his favourite lilies of the valley being
inserted. How he had praised her skill and made his little jokes over
her industry! But the screen would never be used by him now, and the
stitches were put in perfunctorily and with a heavy heart.

Elizabeth had made no answer to David's remark about her gravity. She
was trying to collect her thoughts for the business she had in view;
but the next minute a hand was laid upon her work.

"Tell me all about it," he said persuasively. "Of course I know you and
my father have been brewing mischief. I think I can read your very
thoughts," as Elizabeth looked up at him; "you need not try to hide
things from me."

"I could not if I tried," she returned in a low voice. "David, I want
you to do something for my sake. Your father and I--yes, and Dinah
too--have been making such a nice little plan. We have heard of a
delightful house at Ventnor; it belongs to a friend of Mrs. Godfrey,
and it is so comfortable and so beautifully furnished, and with such a
pleasant view. You are so fond of the sea, David, and your father loves
it too; and we thought"--hesitating a moment, as she felt the grip of
David's fingers round her wrist--"Dinah and I both thought it would be
a capital arrangement to take Red Brae for three or four months. There
would be plenty of room for you, and your father and Theo too," she
continued as he remained silent; "and it would be so nice for us to be
together, and our old nurse Mrs. Gibbon--you know Mrs. Gibbon,
dear--would help us to take care of you."

David drew a deep breath. "Yes, I see," he returned slowly, "and all
the expense and trouble would be for me. Don't I know your generosity,
Elizabeth," in a choked voice. "But it is too much--I cannot do it.
Don't you know, darling--don't we both know--that nothing really
matters? Ventnor will do me no good. Let me bide where I am," and
David's voice was pathetic in its pleading--"let me die in this dear
old cottage."

"No, no," returned Elizabeth, bursting into tears. "David, how can you