is—that you had owned to him that you liked
him, and that when the consent he hoped for
would be obtained, you would be married."

"How came he to write this to you?" said
she, with a slight tremor in her voice.

"In this wise," said he, calmly. " He felt
that he owed me an apology for something that
had occurred between us on that morning; and,
when making his excuses, he deemed he could
give no better proof of frankness than by this
avowal. It was, besides, an act of fairness
towards one who, trusting to his own false light,
might have been lured to delusive hopes."

"Perhaps so," said she, coldly.

"It was very right of him, very proper."
She nodded.

"It was more—it was generous."

"He is generous," said she, warmly.

"He had need be."

"How do you mean, that he had need be?"
asked she, eagerly.

"I mean this— that he will require every gift
he has, and every grace, to outbalance the affection
which I bear you, and which I shall never
cease to bear you. You prefer him. Now, you
may regard me how you will—I will not consent
to believe myself beaten. Yes, Florence, I know
not only that I love you more than he does, but
I love you with a love he is incapable of feeling.
I do not wish to say one word in his dispraise,
least of all to you, in whose favour I want to
stand well; but I wish you—and it is no unfair
request- to prove the affection of the two men
who solicit your love."

"I am satisfied with his."

"You may be satisfied with the version your
own imagination renders of it. You may be
satisfied with the picture you have coloured for
yourself; but I want you to be just to yourself,
and just to me. Now, if I can show you in his
own handwriting—the ink only dried on the
paper a day ago—a letter from him to me, in
which he asks my pardon in terms so abject as
never were wrung from any man, except under
the pressure of a personal fear?"

"You say this to outrage me. Aunt Grainger,"
cried she, in a voice almost a scream, "listen
to what this gentleman has had the temerity
to tell me. Repeat it now, sir, if you dare."

"What is this, Mr. Calvert. You have not
surely presumed—— "

" I have simply presumed, madam, to place
my pretensions in rivalry with Mr. Loyd's. I
have been offering to your niece the half of a
very humble fortune, with a name not altogether
ignoble."

"Oh dear, Mr. Calvert!" cried the old lady,
"I never suspected this. I'm sure my niece is
aware of the great honour we all feel—at least
I do most sensibly— that, if she was not already
engaged— Are you ill, dearest? Oh, she has
fainted. Leave us, Mr. Calvert. Send Maria
here. Milly, some water immediately."

   For more than an hour Calvert walked the
little grass-plot before the door, and no tidings
came to him from those within. To a momentary
bustle and confusion, a calm succeeded—lights
flitted here and there through the cottage. He
fancied he heard something like sobbing, and
then all was still and silent.

"Are you there, Mr. Calvert?" cried Milly, at
last, as she moved out into the dark night" air.
" She is better now—much better. She seems
inclined to sleep, and we have left her."

"You know how it came on ?" asked he, in a
whisper. "You know what brought it about ?"

"No ; nothing of it."

"It was a letter that I showed her—a letter
of Loyd's to myself—conceived in such terms
as no man of, I will not say of spirit, but a common
pretension to the sense of gentleman, could
write. Wait a moment; don't be angry with
me till you hear me out. We had quarrelled in
the morning. It was a serious quarrel, on a
very serious question. I thought, of course,
that all young men, at least, regard these things
in the same way. Well, he did not. I have no
need to say more, he did not, and consequently
nothing could come of it. At all events, I
deemed that the man who could not face an
adversary had no right to brave a rival, and so
I intimated to him. For the second time he
differed with me, and dared in my own presence
to prosecute attentions which I had ordered him
to abandon. This was bad enough, but there
was worse to come, for, on my return home from
this, I found a letter from him in the most
abject terms ; asking my pardon—for what ?—-
for my having insulted him, and begging me, in
words of shameful humility, to let him follow
up his courtship, and, if he could, secure the
hand of your sister. Now she might, or might
not, accept my offer. I am not coxcomb enough
to suppose I must succeed simply because I
wish success; but, putting myself completely
out of the question, could I suffer a girl I
deemed worthy of my love, and whom I desired
to make my wife, to fall to the lot of one so
base as this ? I ask you, was there any other
course open to me than to show her the letter ?
Perhaps it was rash; perhaps I ought to have
shown it first of all to Miss Grainger. I can't
decide this point. It is too subtle for me. I
only know that what I did I should do again, no
matter what the consequences might be."

"And this letter, has she got it still?" asked
Milly.

"No, neither she nor any other will ever read
it now. I have torn it to atoms. The wind
has carried the last fragments this moment over
the lake."

"Oh dear! what misery all this is," cried
the girl, in an accent of deep affliction. " If
you knew how she is attached—-" Then
suddenly checking the harsh indiscretion of her
words, she added, "I am sure you did all for
the best, Mr. Calvert. I must go back now.
You'll come and see us, or perhaps you'll let me
write to you, to-morrow."

"I have to say good-by, now," said he, sadly.
"I may see you all again within a week. It
may be this is a good-by for ever."

He kissed her hand as he spoke, and turned
to the lake, where his boat was lying.