" Melanie," said ho again, " I go to morrow—are we to part in ~~ anger Have you not one word for me to remember, till we meet again on earth, or in heaven ? What does this mean ?" d "Silence, sir, I know all," she J ' replied. g " All what, my dearest girl ?" " Don't call me so," said she, with y pretty asperity, beating the turf with a shapely little foot. I> » Why V' " Because I won't be called girl," she continued, with petulant lips and still averted face ; " and now I know too much." " Of what ?" 1 "Your meeting with Hilda Tre i mayne when you should have met J me. Did not I see you caressing her hair, and hear her say how you > might float on the river there for I hundreds of years in happiness, pro vided you two were together ? Oh,' i it was dreadful to hear her say that, added Melanie with a break in her voice. " Will you listen to me ?" said Lonsdale in dire perplexity now, yet with a curious smile on his face. •' No, I will not. What can you tell mo more than I heard—of what more than I saw 1 No, I will not listen." " Yet you come here, my darling )) "To say all is over between us. I could have forgiven anything but this—anything," she said, weeping in abject misery now, and turning her engagement ring round and round on her finger nervously. " Dearest Melanie," began Lons dale, who now understood the scope of the scrape in which he had fal len. " Nothing in this world is worth caring for or grieving about," said she, with a heavy sob, belying her own assertion. " Why f" " Because nothing lasts long." " It may last our time, and that, by Jove, is quite enough for us," 1 " Nothing can sever two hearts, however loving, like mistrust." " What am I to say to you, 1 Melanie ?" asked Lonsdale, conning ' over mentally the terms of his nec essary explanation. ' " Nothing but good-bye, I think." 1 "Is that all T' said he reproach fully, while bending over her. 