d proverb which
warns us not to count our chickens before they are hatched. Let us wait
a little before we count ours."

It was not easy to silence Miss Garth, when she was speaking under the
influence of a strong conviction; but this reply closed her lips. She
resumed her work, and looked, and thought, unutterable things.

Mrs. Vanstone's behavior was certainly remarkable under the
circumstances. Here, on one side, was a girl--with great personal
attractions, with rare pecuniary prospects, with a social position which
might have justified the best gentleman in the neighborhood in making
her an offer of marriage--perversely casting herself away on a penniless
idle young fellow, who had failed at his first start in life, and who
even if he succeeded in his second attempt, must be for years to come in
no position to marry a young lady of fortune on equal terms. And there,
on the other side, was that girl's mother, by no means dismayed at the
prospect of a connection which was, to say the least of it, far from
desirable; by no means certain, judging her by her own words and looks,
that a marriage between Mr. Vanstone's daughter and Mr. Clare's son
might not prove to be as satisfactory a result of the intimacy between
the two young people as the parents on both sides could possibly wish
for!

It was perplexing in the extreme. It was almost as unintelligible as
that past mystery--that forgotten mystery now--of the journey to London.

In the evening, Frank made his appearance, and announced that his father
had mercilessly sentenced him to leave Combe-Raven by the parliamentary
train the next morning. He mentioned this circumstance with an air
of sentimental resignation; and listened to Mr. Vanstone's boisterous
rejoicings over his new prospects with a mild and mute surprise. His
gentle melancholy of look and manner greatly assisted his personal
advantages. In his own effeminate way he was more handsome than ever
that evening. His soft brown eyes wandered about the room with a melting
tenderness; his hair was beautifully brushed; his delicate hands hung
over the arms of his chair with a languid grace. He looked like a
convalescent Apollo. Never, on any previous occasion, had he practiced
more successfully the social art which he habitually cultivated--the art
of casting himself on society in the character of a well-bred Incubus,
and conferring an obligation on his fellow-creatures by allowing them to
sit under him. It wa