her closely-cut costume of fawn-coloured cloth with its dainty cinnamon ruchings. One little soft frill of chiffon nestled round her throat, from which the white, graceful neck and well-poised head shot up like a lily amid moss. Her thin white hands were pressed together, and her blue eyes turned beseechingly upon her mother.
"Silly girl! Silly girl!" said the matron, answering that imploring look. She put her hands upon her daughter's sloping shoulders and drew her towards her. "It is a very nice place for a short time. It will be a stepping stone."
"But oh! mamma, in a week! Poor Arthur!"
"He will be happy."
"What! happy to part?"
"He need not part. You shall go with him."
"Oh! mamma!"
"Yes, I say it."
"Oh! mamma, in a week?"
"Yes indeed. A great deal may be done in a week. I shall order your trousseau to-day."
"Oh! you dear, sweet angel! But I am so frightened! And papa? Oh! dear, I am so frightened!"
"Your papa is a diplomatist, dear."
"Yes, ma."
"But, between ourselves, he married a diplomatist
