exams, but I can make awful caricatures of the masters. Ho! ho!'
'Be an artist, then,' said Maisie. 'You're always laughing at my trying to draw; and it will do you good.'
'I'll never laugh at anything you do,' he answered. 'I'll be an artist, and I'll do things.'
'Artists always want money, don't they?'
'I've got a hundred and twenty pounds a year of my own. My guardians tell me I'm to have it when I come of age. That will be enough to begin with.'
'Ah, I'm rich,' said Maisie. 'I've got three hundred a year all my own when I'm twenty-one. That's why Mrs. Jennett is kinder to me than she is to you. I wish, though, that I had somebody that belonged to me,—just a father or a mother.'
'You belong to me.' said Dick, 'for ever and ever.'
'Yes, we belong—for ever. It's very nice.' She squeezed his arm. The kindly darkness hid them both, and, emboldened because he could only just see the profile of Maisie's cheek with the long lashes veiling the gray eyes, Dick at the front door delivered himself of the words he had been boggling over for the last two hours.
'And I—love you, Maisie,' he said, in a whisper
