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abundantly prospered. Being
thus without family ties, Mrs. Adair thinks it more than probable
she may bequeath Silverbeach to her adopted child, in that remote
period when she may be called upon to part with it herself. More
than once she has hinted to Pansy that dutiful attention to her
wishes may secure this most comfortable inheritance.
    What
have the three years brought within Polesheaton, Miss Temperance
Piper, and the little general shop? It would be useless to ask
Pansy, for she knows not. Whether she cares or not only her secret heart can tell. The life in the
village shop seems to her now like a long-past dream, and though
her aunt, in reply to her letter, sent a few tender lines of love
and blessing, Pansy dared not offend Mrs. Adair by continuing the
correspondence, so that aunt and niece have drifted apart surely
and utterly now.
    Pansy is very
much in love -- how could she fail to be, after the long teaching
and training of overdrawn and sensational love-stories upon Miss
Piper's counter? She was prepared to fall in love from the hour she
left the home of her childhood, and Cyril Langdale has continued
ever since her hero, her prince, her ideal.
    "I know he cares about me," she
tells herself sometimes, blushing even at the thought. "He has
never spoken plainly, but his eyes have a language of their own. He
has sketched and painted me again and again, and did he not once
call me 'darling' when we were rowing in the moonlight? And does he
not hold my hand, and did he not ask me to take care of myself,
when my throat was sore, for his sake? I
only just caught the whisper, but I am sure those were the words he
said.
    "He is so
good, so clever, so tender, so handsome -- what a happy, happy girl
I am! Mrs. Adair is fond of him, and she encourages his visits. I
know she would let us be engaged. The course of true love will run
smooth in our case. I do think I am the most fortunate girl in all
the world."
    It would
seem far less romantic to Pansy if her hero proposed to her
otherwise than with his impressive dark eyes. Her heart relies
absolutely upon his devotion, and if she prays at all in these
glittering days, the name of " Cyril" is
that which fills her petitions.
    Never while
she lives will she forget the day that scatters her fairy dream for
evermore. She is at her brightest and happiest in Mrs. Adair's
houseboat, witnessing a festive regatta on the river, when May
Damarel, a girl with whom she is very friendly, accosts her with
the exclamation, "Why, there you are, Pansy. I have wanted to get
you to myself ever so long. I have something marvellous to tell
you. Wonders will never cease. A regular old bachelor is going to
be married."
    "Old Mr.
Henry? " asks Pansy, looking with
amusement at the endeavour of a young-looking spinster in the
company to get an elderly bachelor to explain the regatta for her
benefit. "Well, perseverance deserves success."
    "No, no;
somebody we know much better, Pansy. Guess again."
    "We do
not know many old bachelors. Do you mean
the vicar?"
    "Why,
child, he is nearly ninety. The one I mean is not really old, but people have expected him to marry for
years, and have grown accustomed to looking upon him now as a
confirmed bachelor."
    The thought
flashed across Pansy's mind that Cyril Langdale may have hinted to
his friends that he has some hope and idea of marrying. She blushes
deeply, and tells May she is no good at guessing, while little
throbs of trembling joy awake new sweetness within her heart.
    "Well, I
mean Cyril Langdale. Who would have thought of his getting engaged? Can you guess the lady, I
wonder? "
    Pansy thinks
she can, but only leans against the flower-wreathed pillar of the
boat, and looks smilingly out to the sunny waters.
     

     
    "Of
course it is that American widow, Mrs. Tredder. I suppose she is
the handsomest woman on the river today, and you know he worships
beauty. Then they say her husband was almost a millionaire. Mother
says she has never seen more valuable