still as in a picture, and he
knew that every word and every gesture of Mrs. Grey would in his memory
rest always enambered. He was glad, and yet in the captivating quiet a
little sorry, that she began to speak at once:

"Of course Pauline told me about yesterday. And of course I would sooner
she were in love with a man she loved than with a man who had a great
deal of money. But of course you mustn't be engaged at once. At least
you can be engaged; you are engaged. Oh yes, of course if you weren't
engaged I shouldn't allow you to see each other, and you shall see each
other occasionally. Francis has not said anything. The Rector will
probably be rather doubtful. Of course I told him; only he happened to
be very busy about something in the garden. But he would want Pauline to
be happy. Of course she is my favorite--at least I should not say that,
I love all my daughters, but Pauline is--well, she has the most
beautiful nature in the world. My darling Pauline!"

Mrs. Grey's eyes were wet, and Guy was so full of affectionate gratitude
that it was only by blinking very hard at a small picture of Pauline
hanging beside the mantelpiece he was able to keep his own dry.

"I have a nicer picture than that which I will give you," Mrs. Grey
promised. "The one that I am fondest of, the one I keep beside my bed.
Perhaps you would like a picture of her when she was seventeen? She's
just the same now, and really I think she'll always be the same."

"You are too good to me, Mrs. Grey," he sighed.

"We are all so fond of you ... even the Rector, though he is not likely
to show it. Pauline is perhaps more like me. Her impulsiveness comes
from me."

"Ought I to talk to the Rector about our engagement?" Guy asked.

"Oh no, no ... it would disturb him, and I don't think he'll admit that
you _are_ engaged. In fact, he said something about children; but I
would rather.... At least, of course, you are children. But Margaret
says you can't be quite a child or you would not be in love with
Pauline. And now if you go along the Fairfield road you'll meet her. But
that is only an exception. Not often. I think to-day she might be
disappointed if you didn't meet her. And come to lunch, of course.
Poetry is a little precarious, but at any rate for the present we
needn't talk about the future. I wish your mother were still alive. I
think she would have loved Pauline."

"She would have adored her," said Guy, fervently.

"And your father? Of