n the sun,
Ere day is done,
Sitting on a rose,
As the summer time grows._

_Ah, the bold, brave days,
Ere the glass of Time
'Neath the sun's rays,
Like a flame of fire,--
And the_ ..."

She stopped again.

"No, I don't think this is quite----"

"Do, do go on!"

Mrs. Foster looked at her.

"You have a great deal of sensibility, Daphne. I believe you have tears
in your eyes."

"No, I haven't really." She turned away her head, nearly choking.

A loud knock was heard at the front door.

Mrs. Foster looked out of the window.

"It's Cyril!" she exclaimed. "He's got away after all. Quick! Quick!"
She threw the book under a cushion and sat on it. With trembling
fingers she took up some needlework out of a basket.

"Not a word--not a word! Go and meet him in the hall, dear. He's come to
give us a surprise. I'll wait."

Blushing and laughing Daphne ran downstairs.

CHAPTER XVII

ENGAGED

Daphne and Cyril sat in the garden together. The conditions seemed
ideal. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun was hot, but a gay
irresponsible little west wind stirred the trees; bees hummed
industriously, butterflies darted casually about among the few flowers,
and even the reticent doves cooed from time to time, condescendingly.
Peeping through the blind Mrs. Foster thought the two young people made
a perfect picture, and was reminded of the Golden Age. Indeed, they had
very much the charming, almost improbable air of the figures in a Summer
Number of an illustrated paper. Perhaps the conditions were too perfect:
the lovers had, of course, nothing to sit on but a rustic seat--Mrs.
Foster would have thought it a crime to have anything else in a garden,
and rustic seats are, no doubt, picturesque, but they are very
uncomfortable; they seem to consist of nothing but points and knobs,
gnarls and corners.

When Daphne was alone with Cyril like this she felt contented and
peaceful at first, and then she began to wonder why she wasn't happier
still--why she didn't feel ecstatic. She was proud of Cyril; he looked
very handsome in flannels, his regular features, smooth fair hair, small
head and small feet all added to his resemblance to the hero in the
holiday number.

Cyril said--

"Dear little girl!" and took her hand.

She laughed and answered--

"Dear old boy!"

Then he said--

"By Jove! you do look ripping, Daphne."

She smiled.

"Jolly being here like this, isn't it?" s