little sigh.

His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over
the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour:

[Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"]

"No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England
years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination
that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my
heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long
years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton
Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again.
It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting
for my answer."

"Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and
girl."

"I remember nothing of the kind. All I remember is that it's Christmas
Day, that I've asked you a question, and that I am waiting for the
answer you would have given me years ago but for the damp and a drop of
gum. You know what it would have been then; give me it now. Dearest, I'm
waiting."

And Selina Martyn gave her answer, an all-sufficient one to both.

[Illustration: SELINA MARTYN GAVE HER ANSWER.]

[Sidenote: Young people, read and take warning by this awful example.]

Whilst Waiting for the Motor

BY

MADELINE OYLER

Her name was Isabel, and she really was a very nice, good little
girl--when she remembered. But you can't always remember, you know; you
wouldn't be a little girl if you could, and this happened on one of
those days when she didn't remember.

Of course Peter forgot too; but then you would expect him to, for he was
only a boy, and boys, as I suppose you know, cannot use their brains in
the way that girls can.

The two had spent their morning in the usual way, had breakfast, fed the
rabbits, said "Good-morning" to the horses, got mother a bunch of
flowers from their own gardens (Isabel's turn this morning), seen daddy
off, and then had lessons.

You wouldn't have guessed for a moment that it was going to be a bad
day; everything had gone well. Peter had actually remembered that Madrid
was the capital of Spain, always a rather doubtful question with him;
and Isabel had said her eight times with only two mistakes, and they
were slight ones.

So you may imagine they were feeling very happy and good, because it was
a half-holiday, and, best of all, because Auntie May was coming over
with her big motor at three o'clock, to take them back