her day without losing a life!"

"Indeed!" said Mary. "What good fun it is to see Mr. Mills play; he
holds his queue as if he were afraid of it."

"I say, Mary," said Cleaveland, "you don't think that Florence will
marry that contemptible little wretch, do you? Hang it, I should be
savage if she had not better taste. There's a cannon."

"She has better taste," replied Mary, in a low tone, as Mrs. Aspeden and
Fane entered the room.

I never could like Mrs. Aspeden--peace be with her now, poor woman--but
there was such a want of delicacy and tact, and such open manoeuvring
in all she did, which surprised me, clever woman as she was.

No sooner had she approached the billiard-table that day, than she
began:

"Florence was called away from her singing to a conference with her
uncle, and--with somebody else, I fancy." (Fane darted a keen look of
inquiry at her.) "Poor dear girl! being left so young an orphan, I have
always felt such a great interest and affection for her, and I shall
rejoice to see her happily settled as--as I trust there is a prospect of
now," she continued.

Could she mean Florence Aspeden had engaged herself to Mr. Mills? A
roguish smile on Mary's face reassured me, but Fane walked hastily to
the window, and stood with folded arms looking out upon the sunny
landscape.

Inveterate flirt that he was, his pride was hurt at the idea of a rival,
and _such_ a rival, winning in a game in which _he_ deigned to have
_ever_ so small a stake, _ever_ such a passing interest!

The dinner passed off heavily--_very_ heavily--for gay Woodlands, for
the gallant captain and Florence were both of them _distraits_ and
_genes_, and he hardly spoke to the poor girl. Oh, wicked Fane!

We sat but little time after the ladies had retired, and Tom and Mr.
Aspeden going after some horse or other, Fane and I ascended to the
drawing-room alone. It was unoccupied, and we sat down to await them, I
amusing myself with teaching Master Tommy, the young heir of Woodlands,
some comic songs, wherewith to astonish his nurse pretty considerably,
and Fane leaning back in an arm-chair, with Florence's dog upon his knee
in _that_, for _him_, most extraordinary thing, a "brown study."

Suddenly some voices were heard in the next room.

"Florence, it is your duty, recollect."

"Aunt, I can recollect nothing, save that it would be far, far worse
than death to me to marry Mr. Mills. I hold it dread sin to marry a man
for whom one can