c sparkle in her eyes. Mrs. Dinks had long felt that
she and Fanny were contesting a prize. At this moment, while she knew
that she had not won, she was sure that Fanny had lost.

Fanny was prepared for such a reception. She did not shrink. She
remembered the great Burt fortune. But before she could speak Mrs.
Dinks rose, and, with an air of contemptuous defiance, inquired,

"Where are you living, Mrs. Dinks?"

Mr. Alfred looked at his wife in profound perplexity. He thought, for his
part, that he was living in that very house. But his wife answered,
quietly,

"We are at Bunker's, where we shall be delighted to see you.
Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks."

And Fanny took her husband by the arm and went out, having entirely
confounded her mother-in-law, who meant to have wished her children
good-morning, and then have left them to their embarrassment. But victory
seemed to perch upon Fanny's standards along the whole line.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BACK WINDOW.

Lawrence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of age between Amy
Waring and himself; and instinctively he did nothing which could show to
others that he felt more for her than for a friend. Younger men, who
could not help yielding to the charm of her presence, never complained of
him. He was never "that infernal old bore, Lawrence Newt," to them. More
than one of them, in the ardor of young feeling, had confided his passion
to Lawrence, who said to him, bravely, "My dear fellow, I do not wonder
you feel so. God speed you--and so will I, all I can."

And he did so. He mentioned the candidate kindly to Miss Waring. He
repeated little anecdotes that he had heard to his advantage. Lawrence
regarded the poor suitor as a painter does a picture. He took him up in
the arms of his charity and moved him round and round. He put him upon
his sympathy as upon an easel, and turned on the kindly lights and
judiciously darkened the apartment.

His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beautiful flowers
arrived from the aspiring youths. They were so lovely, so fragrant!
What taste that young Hal Battlebury has! remarks Lawrence Newt,
admiringly, as he smells the flowers that stand in a pretty vase upon
the centre-table. Amy Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn's
taste, of whom Mr. Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that it
is at least very thoughtful in him. A young lady can not but feel kindly,
surely, toward young men who express their goo