Airy Fairy Lilian. Duchess
horse-chestnut at its head, and a silver fir at its feet."
"Yes, – yes!"
"I know it well," says Chetwoode, smiling at her eagerness. "It was your mother's favorite spot. You know she and my mother were fast friends, and she was very fond of me. When first she was married, before you were born, I was constantly at the Park, and afterward too. She used to read in the spot you name, and I – I was a delicate little fellow at that time, obliged to lie a good deal, and I used to read there beside her with my head in her lap, by the hour together."
"Why, you know more about my mother than I do," says Lilian, with some faint envy in her tones.
"Yes," – hastily, having already learned how little a thing can cause an outbreak, when one party is bent on war, – "but you must not blame me for that. I could not help it."
"No," – regretfully, – "I suppose not. Before I was born, you say. How old that seems to make you!"
"Why?" – laughing. "Because I was able to read eighteen years ago? I was only nine, or perhaps ten, then."
"I never could do my sums," says Lilian: "I only know it sounds as though you were the Ancient Mariner or Methuselah, or anybody in the last stage of decay."
"And yet I am not so very old, Lilian. I am not yet thirty."
"Well, that's old enough. When I am thirty I shall take to caps with borders, and spectacles, and long black mittens, like nurse. Ha, ha!" laughs Lilian, delighted at the portrait of herself she has drawn, "shan't I look nice then?"
"I dare say you will," says Guy, quite seriously. "But I would advise you to put off the wearing of them for a while longer. I don't think thirty old. I am not quite that."
"A month or two don't signify," – provokingly; "and as you have had apparently a very good life I don't think it manly of you to fret because you are drawing to the close of it. Some people would call it mean. There, never mind your age: tell me something more about my mother. Did you love her?"
"One could not help loving her, she was so gentle, so thoroughly kind-hearted."
"Ah! what a pity it is I don't resemble her!" says Lilian, with a suspiciously deep sigh, accepting the reproach, and shaking her head mournfully. "Was she like that picture at home in the drawing-room? I hope not. It is very lovely, but it lacks expression, and has no tenderness about it."
"Then the artist must have done her great injustice. She was all tenderness both in face and disposition as I remember her, and children are very correct in their impressions. She was extremely beautiful. You are very like her."
"Am I, Sir Guy? Oh, thank you. I didn't hope for so much praise. Then in one thing at least I do resemble my mother. Am I more beautiful or less so?"
"That is quite a matter of opinion."
"And what is yours?" saucily.
"What can it matter to you?" he says, quickly, almost angrily. "Besides, I dare say you know it."
"I don't, indeed. Never mind, I shall find out for myself. I am so glad" – amiably – "you knew my mother, and the dear Park! It sounds horrible, does it not, but the Park is even more dear to me than – than her memory."
"You can scarcely call it a 'memory'; she died when you were so young, – hardly old enough to have an idea. I recollect you so well, a little toddling thing of two."
"The plot thickens. You knew me also? And pray, Sir Guardian, what was I like?"
"You had blue eyes, and a fair skin, a very imperious will, and the yellowest hair I ever saw."
"A graphic description! It would be madness on the part of any one to steal me, as I should infallibly be discovered by it. Well, I have not altered much. I have still my eyes and my hair, and my will, only perhaps rather more of the latter. Go on: you are very unusually interesting to-day: I had no idea you possessed such a fund of information. Were you very fond of me?"
"Very," says Chetwoode, laughing in spite of himself. "I was your slave, as long as I was with you. Your lightest wish was my law. I used even – "
A pause.
"Yes, do go on: I am all attention. 'I used even – '"
"I was going to say I used to carry you about in my arms, and kiss you into good humor when you were angry, which was pretty often," replies Guy, with a rather forced laugh, and a decided accession of color; "but I feared such a very grown-up young lady as you might be offended."
"Not in the least," – with a gay, perfectly unembarrassed enjoyment at his confusion. "I never heard anything so amusing. Fancy you being my nurse once on a time. I feel immensely flattered when I think such an austere individual actually condescended to hold me in his arms and kiss me into good humor. It is more than I have any right to expect. I am positively overwhelmed. By the bye, had your remedy the desired effect? Did I subdue my naughty passion under your treatment?"
"As far as I can recollect, yes," rather stiffly. Nobody likes being laughed at.
"How odd!" says Miss Chesney.
"Not very," retorts he: "at that time you were very fond of me."
"That is even odder," says Miss Chesney, who takes an insane delight in teasing him. "What a pity it is you cannot invent some plan for reducing me to order now!"
"There are some tasks too great for a mere mortal to undertake," replies Sir Guy, calmly.
Miss Chesney, not being just then prepared with a crushing retort, wisely refrains from speech altogether, although it is by a superhuman effort she does so. Presently, however, lest he should think her overpowered by the irony of his remark, she says, quite pleasantly:
"Did Cyril ever see me before I came here?"
"No." Then abruptly, "Do you like Cyril?"
"Oh, immensely! He suits me wonderfully, he is so utterly devoid of dignity, and all that. One need not mind what one says to Cyril; in his worst mood he could not terrify. Whereas his brother – " with a little malicious gleam from under her long, heavy lashes.
"Well, what of his brother?"
"Nay, Sir Guy, the month we agreed on has not yet expired," says Lilian. "I cannot tell you what I think of you yet. Still, you cannot imagine how dreadfully afraid I am of you at times."
"If I believed you, it would cause me great regret," says her guardian, rather hurt. "I am afraid, Lilian, your father acted unwisely when he chose Chetwoode as a home for you."
"What! are you tired of me already?" asks she hastily, with a little tremor in her voice, that might be anger, and that might be pain.
"Tired of you? No! But I cannot help seeing that the fact of my being your guardian makes me abhorrent to you."
"Not quite that," says Miss Chesney, in a little soft, repentant tone. "What a curious idea to get into your head? dismiss it; there is really no reason why it should remain."
"You are sure?" with rather more earnestness than the occasion demands.
"Quite sure. And now tell me how it was I never saw you until now, since I was two years old."
"Well, for one thing, your mother died; then I went to Eton, to Cambridge, got a commission in the Dragoons, tired of it, sold out, and am now as you see me."
"What an eventful history!" says Lilian, laughing.
At this moment, who should come toward them, beneath the trees, but Cyril, walking as though for a wager.
"'Whither awa?'" asks Miss Lilian, gayly stopping him with outstretched hands.
"You have spoiled my quotation," says Cyril, reproachfully, "and it was on the very tip of my tongue. I call it disgraceful. I was going to say with fine effect, 'Where are you going, my pretty maid?' but I fear it would fall rather flat if I said it now."
"Rather. Nevertheless, I accept the compliment. Are you in training? or where are you going in such a hurry?"
"A mere constitutional," says Cyril, lightly, – which is a base and ready lie. "Good-bye, I won't