as of winning the woman; and as for an abstract question of beauty, he would have held that Venus herself could not have surpassed Eleanor Milbourne.  She was an adorable goddess whom any man might be content to worship from a distance, he thought; and he was preparing to go and sun himself in the glance of her eyes, which seemed like bits of heaven in their blueness and their fairness, when Mrs. Brantley touched his arm and bade him take a newly-arrived piece of white muslin in to dinner.  Clare looked a little crestfallen, but against the decision of his hostess on this important subject what civilized man was ever known to revolt?  He took the white muslin in to dinner, and had the satisfaction of finding himself separated by the length of the table from Miss Milbourne.

After dinner Mrs. Brantley claimed his attention.  It seemed that there was a plan under discussion for showing the sole lion of the neighborhood—­a hill of considerable eminence known as Farley’s Mount—­to the guests of The Willows.  But it was distant twelve miles, What did Major Clare think of their starting early, breaking the ride by rest and luncheon at Claremont, then going on to the mountain, making the ascent, and returning by moonlight?

“It will not do at all,” said Victor.  “Twenty-four miles is too much to be undertaken on a July day by a mere party of pleasure.  You would break yourselves down and see nothing.  I propose an amendment:  Take two days instead of one, and spend a night on the mountain.  If you have never camped on a mountain, the novelty is well worth experiencing, and these midsummer nights have scarcely any length, you know.  Then the sunrise is magnificent.”

“That is exactly what we will do,” cried Mrs. Brantley, clapping her hands with childish glee.  And the proposal, being submitted to the company, was unanimously carried.

Meanwhile, Eleanor Milbourne was walking with Mr. Brent in the soft summer twilight on the lawn.

“You should not press me so hard,” she said as they paced slowly to and fro.  “I fear I can never give you what you desire, but I cannot tell yet.  Grant me a little time.”

“A little time!  But think how much time you have had!” the gentleman urged, not without reason.  “You said when I went abroad that you were not sure enough of your heart to accept me then, but that you would give me a final answer when I returned.  You had all the months of my absence to consider what this answer should be, and when I came for it, spending not so much as an hour in tarrying on the road, I found that it was not ready for me—­that I had yet longer to wait.  Eleanor, is this kind? is it even just?”

“It is neither,” said Eleanor, turning to him with a strange deprecation on her fair proud face.  “I know that you have been everything that is patient and generous, and I am sorry—­oh I am more than sorry—­to have seemed to trifle with you; but what can I do?  Remember that when I decide, it is for my whole life.  You cannot doubt that I will hold fast to my promise when it is once given.”