"What a lot of nonsense you do talk, you silly boy!" says Clarissa, who is still leaning over his chair in such a position that he cannot see her face. Perhaps, could he have seen it, he might have noticed how pale it is beyond its wont. "Well, the Redmonds seemed quite pleased, and I shall write to Georgie to-morrow. It will be nice for her to be here, near me. It may keep her from being lonely and unhappy."
"Well, it ought," says George Peyton. "What did the vicar say?"
"The vicar always says just what I say," replies she, a trifle saucily, and with a quick smile.
"Poor man! his is the common lot," says her father; and then, believing she has said all she wants to say, and being filled with a desire to return to his book and his notes, he goes on: "So that was the weighty matter you wanted to discuss, eh? Is that all your news?"
"Not quite," returns she, in a low tone.
"No? You are rich in conversation this evening. Who is it we are now to criticise?"
"The person you love best,—I hope."
"Why, that will be you," says George Peyton.
"You are sure?" says Clarissa, a little tremulously; and then her father turns in his chair and tries to read her face.
"No; stay just as you are; I can tell you better if you do not look at me," she whispers, entreatingly, moving him with her hands back to his former position.