.

"You were right, Marlboro'," said, in his significant undertone, Mr. St.
George to him from the other side, as he mounted, while Eloise stood on
the step above. "Success perched on your banners. I should have lost, if
I had tossed."

"You know it, then? Why, then, of course, it's true. I am half afraid
lest it prove one of my cloud-capped dreams. I shall need no more opium
to-night, I have other magic," said Marlboro',--bent down and would have
kissed the forehead of Eloise, when the horse curvetted, reared, and
galloped off.

Was she really pledged? then thought Eloise, as the bead of all her
defiant effervescence fell. Was there no loop of escape? Had she so
rashly given all at once? Should she inevitably become the wife of
Marlboro'? Were the chains upon her? Was she doomed? Nobody guessed her
misery, as she reentered with a _fanfare_ of jests, unless it were the
gay St. George himself.

"Are you to be congratulated?" asked the low-voiced Mrs. Arles, having
smilingly approached.

"No, no, indeed!" exclaimed Eloise, in a smothered agony; and Mrs.
Arles, misunderstanding her, supposed it was not finally arranged.

"What a reckless rider!" cried Miss Murray, looking down the moonlit way
after Marlboro'.

"It is not the only reckless thing he does," said her brother.

"No," interpolated Mr. Dean. "The way in which Marlboro' manages his
affairs is too Plutonic. But what a gloss those shining sovereign
manners of his do put upon it all!"

"Sovereign manners! Don't talk of sovereign manners, unless you mention
Mr. St. George's," said Lottie Humphreys under her breath, and glancing
to see if he could possibly hear with the length of the room between
them. "Mr. St. George puts my heart in a flutter, when he asks will I
have ice or cream."

"I've no doubt of it," whispered Emma Houghton, with meaning.

"Sure you're right, Dean?" asked Mr. Humphreys. "I should not like to
have at home the dangerous cattle Marlboro' can put finger on."

"Perhaps they would be less dangerous, if the fingers were less
weighty."

"Here's Marlboro's theory, and in the long run it's about the true one,
you must confess.--Shut that door, Kate, my dear.--A cramped stature
does not feel a cramped roof; but raise the stature, and the slave
outgrows his institution, and there's revolt. Eh? There's such a thing
as equally bad extremes. Our old friend Mr. Erne's of late, and St.
George's now,--beg your pardon, St. George,--are both of th