rold, laughing. "If you do, you
are bound to let me know where, you understand."

"What lies between the eyes and mouth?" said Miss Cardigan. "There
goes more to a picture."

"Between the eyes and mouth," said Thorold, "there is sense and
dignity, and delicacy, and refinement to a fastidious point; and a
world of strength of character in the little delicate chin."

"Character--_that_ shows in the mouth," said Miss Cardigan, slowly.

"I told you so," said Thorold. "That is what I told you. Truth, and
love, and gentleness, all sit within those little red lips; and a
great strength of will, which you cannot help thinking has borne
something to try it. The brow is like one of our snowy mountain tops
with the sun shining on it."

"And the lady's figure is like a pine-tree, isn't it? It sounds gay,
as if you'd fallen in love with Nature, and so personified and imaged
her in human likeness. Is it real humanity?"

Thorold laughed his gay laugh. "The pine-tree will do excellently,
Aunt Catherine," he said. "No better embodiment of stately grace could
be found."

My ears tingled. "Aunt Catherine?" _Aunt!_ Then Thorold must be her
relation, her nephew; then he was not come on business; then he would
stay to tea. I might as well show myself. But, I thought, if Thorold
had some other lady so much in his mind (for I was sure his picture
must be in a portrait), he would not care so very much about seeing
me, as I had at first fancied he would. However, I could not go away;
so I might as well go in; it would not do to wait longer. The evening
had quite fallen now. It was April, as I said, but a cold, raw spring
day, and had been like that for several days. Houses were chill; and
in Miss Cardigan's grate a fine fire of Kennal coals were blazing,
making its red illumination all over the room and the two figures who
sat in front of it. She had had a grate put in this winter. There was
no other light, only that soft red glow and gloom, under favour of
which I went in and stood almost beside them before they perceived me.
I did not speak to Miss Cardigan. I remember my words were, "How do
you do, Mr. Thorold?"--in a very quiet kind of a voice; for I did not
now expect him to be very glad. But I was surprised at the change my
words made. He sprang up, his eyes flashing a sort of shower of sparks
over me, gladness in every line of his face, and surprise, and a kind
of inexpressible deference in his manner.

"Daisy!" he exclaimed. "M