ce, whither Robert offered to conduct the Baronet, and where
Mervyn heard more of his proposal than he had bargained for; though,
perhaps, not more than he liked. He was going to an evening party at the
Bannermans', and seeing Sir John's inclination to see Phoebe, proposed to
call for him and take him there.

'What is the use, Phoebe,' demanded Lady Bannerman, after the party was
over, 'of my getting all these young men on purpose to dance with you, if
you get up in a corner all the evening to talk to nobody but Mervyn and
old Sir John? It can be nothing but perverseness, for you are not a bit
shy, and you are looking as delighted as possible to have put me out.'

'Not to have put you out, Augusta, but I am delighted.'

'Well, at what?'

'We are asked to stay at Moorcroft, that's one thing.'

'Stupid place. No wines, no dinners,' said Augusta; 'and so ridiculous
as you are! If the son is at home you'll do nothing but talk to Sir
John. And if ever a girl ought to get married off I am sure it is you.'

'How do you know what good use I may make of my opportunities?'

Phoebe positively danced up-stairs, and indulged in a private polka round
her bedroom. She had been told not only of the Forest plan, but that Sir
John was going to 'run down' to his brother's at Sutton the next day, and
that he had asked Mervyn to come with him.

Mervyn had not this time promised to send her a blank cover. He thought
he had very little present hope, for the talk had been of a year's
probation--of his showing himself a changed character, etc. And not only
was this only half that space, but less than a month had been spent in
England. This time he was not setting off as one about to confer a
favour.

Phoebe heard no more for two days. At last, as she was finishing her
toilette to go out with Augusta, a hasty knock came to her door, and
Mervyn entreated to be let in. His face told more than his tongue could
utter. He had little guessed the intensity of the happiness of which he
had so long deprived himself, and Cecily's acceptance had filled him with
a flood of bliss, tinctured, however, by the sense of his own
unworthiness of her constant affection, and increasing compunction for
what he had made her endure.

'I don't know how she could do it, or why she cared for such a miserable
scamp, breaking her heart all this time!' he exclaimed.

'You will make up for it now.'

'I wish I may; but, bless me, Phoebe, she is a perfe