Next morning, punctual at the early breakfast-hour of those days, the cheery voice of the old rector was heard at the garden rails that fronted the house, and out ran Tom Clinton, from the stable-yard, and bid his ‘raverence,’ with homely phrase, and with a pleasant grin, ‘welcome home,’ and held his bridle and stirrup, while the parson, with a kind smile, and half a dozen enquiries, and the air of a man who, having made a long journey and a distant sojourn, expands on beholding old faces and the sights of home again; he had been away, to be sure, only one night and a part of a day, but his heart clave to his home and his darling; and Lilias ran to the garden gate to meet him, with her old smile and greeting, it seemed fonder and more tender than ever, and then they kissed and hugged and kissed again, and he patted her cheek and thought she looked a little pale, but would not say anything just then that was not altogether cheerful; and so they stepped up the two or three yards of gravel walk — she at his right side, with her right hand in his and her left clinging by his arm, and nestling close by his side, and leading him up to the house like a beloved captive.

And so at breakfast he narrated all his adventures, and told who were at the dinner party, and described two fine ladies’ dresses — for the doctor had skill in millinery, though it was as little known as Don Quixote’s talent for making bird-cages and tooth-picks, confided, as we remember, in one of his conversations with honest Sancho, under the cork trees. He told her his whole innocent little budget of gossip, in his own simple, pleasant way; and his little Lily sat looking on her beloved old man, and smiling, but saying little, and her eyes often filling with tears; and he looked, when he chanced to see it — wistfully and sadly for an instant, but he made no remark.

And sometime after, as she happened to pass the study-door, he called her —‘Little Lily, come here.’ And in she came; and there was the doctor, all alone and erect before his bookshelves, plucking down a volume here, and putting up one there, and —

‘Shut the door, little Lily,’ said he gently and cheerily, going on with his work. ‘I had a letter yesterday evening, my darling, from Captain Devereux, and he tells me that he’s very much attached to you; and I don’t wonder at his being in love with little Lily — he could not help it.’ And he laughed fondly, and was taking down a volume that rather stuck in its place, so he could not turn to look at her; for, the truth was, he supposed she was blushing, and could not bear to add to her confusion; and he, though he continued his homely work, and clapped the sides of his books together, and blew on their tops, and went so simply and plainly to the point, was flushed and very nervous himself; for, though he thought of her marriage at some time or another as a thing that was to be, still it had seemed a long way off. And now, now it was come, and little Lily was actually going to be married — going away — and her place would know her no more; and her greeting and her music would be missed in the evening, and the garden lonely, and the Elms dark, without Lily.

‘And he wants to marry my little Lily, if she’ll have him. And what does my darling wish me to say to him?’ and he spoke very cheerily.

‘My darling, you’re my darling; and your little Lily will never, never leave you. She’ll stay.’ And here the little speech stopped, for she was crying, with her arms about his neck; and the old man cried, too, and smiled over her, and patted her gracious head, with a little trembling laugh, and said, ‘God bless you, my treasure.’

‘Well, little Lily, will you have him?’ he said, after a little pause.

‘No, my darling, no!’ she answered, still crying.

‘You won’t have him?’

‘No — no — never!’

‘Well, little Lily, I won’t answer his letter today; there’s no hurry, you know. And, if you are of the same mind tomorrow, you can just say you wish me to write.’

‘Change, I can’t; my answer will always be the same — always the same.’

And she kissed him again, and went toward the door; but she turned back, drying her eyes, with a smile, and said —

‘No, your little Lily will stay with her darling old man, and be a pleasant old maid, like Aunt Becky: and I’ll play and sing your favourite airs, and Sally and I will keep the house; and we’ll be happier in the Elms, I’m determined, than ever we were — and won’t you call me, darling, when you’re going out?’

So little Lily ran away, and up stairs; and as she left the study and its beloved tenant, at every step the air seemed to darken round her, and her heart to sink. And she turned the key in her door, and threw herself on the bed; and, with her face to the pillow, cried as if her heart would break.

So the summer had mellowed into autumn, and the fall of the leaf, and Devereux did not return; and, it was alleged in the club, on good authority, that he was appointed on the staff of the Commander of the Forces; and Puddock had a letter from him, dated in England, with little or no news in it; and Dr. Walsingham had a long epistle from Malaga, from honest Dan Loftus, full of Spanish matter for Irish history, and stating, with many regrets, that his honourable pupil had taken ill of a fever. And this bit of news speedily took wind, and was discussed with a good deal of interest, and some fun, at the club; and the odds were freely given and taken upon the event.

The politics of Belmont were still pretty much in the old position. The general had not yet returned, and Aunt Rebecca and Gertrude fought pitched............