“You like him more than you say, and he likes you more than he knows.”

“This is very cruel of you!” Charlotte Wentworth murmured.

But if it was cruel Gertrude continued pitiless.  “Not if it ’s true,” she answered.  “I wish he would marry you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“I mean to tell him so!” said Gertrude.

“Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude!” her sister almost moaned.

“Yes, if he speaks to me again about myself.  I will say, ’Why don’t you marry Charlotte?  She ‘s a thousand times better than I.’”

“You are wicked; you are changed!” cried her sister.

“If you don’t like it you can prevent it,” said Gertrude.  “You can prevent it by keeping him from speaking to me!” And with this she walked away, very conscious of what she had done; measuring it and finding a certain joy and a quickened sense of freedom in it.

Mr. Wentworth was rather wide of the mark in suspecting that Clifford had begun to pay unscrupulous compliments to his brilliant cousin; for the young man had really more scruples than he received credit for in his family.  He had a certain transparent shamefacedness which was in itself a proof that he was not at his ease in dissipation.  His collegiate peccadilloes had aroused a domestic murmur as disagreeable to the young man as the creaking of his boots would have been to a house-breaker.  Only, as the house-breaker would have simplified matters by removing his chaussures, it had seemed to Clifford that the shortest cut to comfortable relations with people—­relations which should make him cease to think that when they spoke to him they meant something improving—­was to renounce all ambition toward a nefarious development.  And, in fact, Clifford’s ambition took the most commendable form.  He thought of himself in the future as the well-known and much-liked Mr. Wentworth, of Boston, who should, in the natural course of prosperity, have married his pretty cousin, Lizzie Acton; should live in a wide-fronted house, in view of the Common; and should drive, behind a light wagon, over the damp autumn roads, a pair of beautifully matched sorrel horses.  Clifford’s vision of the coming years was very simple; its most definite features were this element of familiar matrimony and the duplication of his resources for trotting.  He had not yet asked his cousin to marry him; but he meant to do so as soon as he had taken his degree.  Lizzie was serenely conscious of his intention, and she had made up her mind that he would improve.  Her brother, who was very fond of this light, quick, competent little Lizzie, saw on his side no reason to interpose.  It seemed to him a graceful social law that Clifford and his sister should become engaged; he himself was not engaged, but every one else, fortunately, was not such a fool as he.  He was fond of Clifford, as well, and had his own way—­of which it must be confessed he was a little ashamed—­of looking at those aberrations which had led to the