im better than anything in the
world. And you do,--don't you?"

"It is too sudden to say that yet, Clary."

"But I am sure you will. Don't you feel that you will? Come, Mary,
you should tell me something."

"There is so little to tell."

"Then you are afraid of me. I wanted to tell you everything."

"I am not afraid of you. But, remember, it is hardly more than an
hour ago since I first heard of Mr. Newton's wishes, and up to that
moment nothing was further from my dreams."

"I was sure of it, ever so long ago," said Clarissa.

"Oh, Clary!"

"I was. I told Patience how it was to be. I saw it in his eyes. One
does see these things. I knew it would be so; and I told Patience
that we three would be three Mrs. Newtons. But that of course was
nonsense."

"Nonsense, indeed."

"I mean about Patience."

"And what about yourself, Clary?" Clarissa made no answer, and yet
she was burning to tell her own story. She was most anxious to tell
her own story, but only on the condition of reciprocal confidence.
The very nature of her story required that the confidence should be
reciprocal. "You said that you wanted to tell me everything," said
Mary.

"And so I do."

"You know how glad I shall be to hear."

"That is all very well, but,--" And then Clarissa paused.

"But what, dear?"

"You do mean to accept Mr. Newton?"

Now it was time for Mary to pause. "If I were to tell you my whole
heart," she said, "I should be ashamed of what I was saying; and yet
I do not know that there is any cause for shame."

"There can be none," said Clary. "I am sure of that."

"My acquaintance with Mr. Newton is very, very slight. I liked
him,--oh, so much. I thought him to be high-spirited, manly, and a
fine gentleman. I never saw any man who so much impressed me."

"Of course not," said Clarissa, making a gesture as though she
would stop on the high road and clasp her hands together, in which,
however, she was impeded by her parasol and her remembrance of her
present position.

"But it is so much to say that one will love a man better than all
the world, and go to him, and belong to him, and be his wife."

"Ah;--but if one does love him!"

"I can hardly believe that love can grow so quickly."

"Tell the truth, Mary; has it not grown?"

"Indeed I cannot say. There; you shall have the whole truth. When he
comes to me,--and I suppose he will come."

"There isn't much doubt of that."

"If he does come--"

"Well?"

"I h