r would have grown up extremely like Mr.--Mr.--"

"Mr. Halifax, papa."

"Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there--my
daughter's suggestion--she is so fond of rurality. Will you give us
the pleasure of your company? You and"--here, I must confess, the
second invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's--"your
friend."

Of course we assented: I considerably amused, and not ill-pleased, to
see how naturally it fell out that when John appeared in the scene, I,
Phineas, subsided into the secondary character of John's "friend."

Very soon--so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure out
of the Arabian Nights--we found ourselves established under the
apple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into
red chestnut colour the hair of the "nut-browne mayde," as she sat,
bareheaded, pouring into small white china cups that dainty luxury,
tea. She had on--not the grey gown, but a white one, worked in
delicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew in
such clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they were
still growing, in her fair maiden bosom.

She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our domains
for her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather incoherent
answer from John about being "quite welcome."

He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there. It struck
me as strange, that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frank
and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind, to me than to him.
Also, I noted, that while she chatted gaily with me, John almost
entirely confined his talk to her father.

But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to every
word that was said. I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was once
unloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not that he
was one of your showy conversationalists; language was with him neither
a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for
thought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his
ideas were clothed. His conversation was never wearisome, since he
only spoke when he had something to say; and having said it, in the
most concise and appropriate manner that suggested itself at the time,
he was silent; and silence is a great and rare virtue at twenty years
of age.

We talked a good deal about Wales; John had been there more than once
in his journeyings; and thi