y receded farther into the
background. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if the
wall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed it
into the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge. "As for
burglary," goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously.
"You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I--I confess I have
stolen something belonging to you."

"Oh, no; not stolen," says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. "Barbara, I
know what you will think, but----"

"I know what I do think!" cries Barbara, joyously. "Oh, is it, can it be
true?"

It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliant
match for a sister with a fortune--she remembers only in that lovely
mind of hers that he had loved Joyce when she was without a penny, and
that he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that could
make Joyce happy.

"Yes; it is true!" says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayety
now and has grown very grave; there is even a slight tremble in his
voice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. "She has
given herself to me. You are really glad! You are not angry about it? I
know I am not good enough for her, but----"

Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rather
tremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not been
of the least use to her, brings herself somewhat shamefacedly into the
only light the room receives through the western window. The twilight at
all events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face.

"I really can't stay here," says she, "and listen to my own praises
being sung. And besides," turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassed
face, "Barbara will not regard it as you do; she will, on the contrary,
say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to be
pilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able to
make up my own mind for so long a time."

"Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in the
world, and that I'm delighted things have turned out so well. I always
said it would be like this," cries Barbara exultantly, who certainly
never had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful about
it.

"Is Mr. Monkton in?" says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife to
imagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would be
hailed with rapture.

"Oh, never mind him," says she, beaming upon th