impression a man makes by his character for
resolution is always of consequence."

Emily very soon saw that her sister spoke with
an unusual degree of irritation. The arrival of
her lover had not overjoyed her; it had scarcely
cheered her. He came, too, not full of high
hopes and animated by the prospect of a bright
future, speculating on the happy days that were
before them, and even fixing the time they were
to meet again, but depressed and dispirited,
darkly hinting at all the dangers of absence, and
gloomily telling over the long miles of ocean
that were so soon to roll between them.

Now Florence was scarcely prepared for all
this. She had expected to be comforted, and
supported, and encouraged; and yet from herself,
now, all the encouragement and all the support
was to be derived! She was to infuse hope, to
supply courage, and inspire determination. He
was only there to be sustained and supported.
It is true she knew nothing of the trials and
difficulties which were before him, and she could
neither discuss nor lighten them; but she could
talk of India as a mere neighbouring country,
the "overland" a rather pleasant tour, and two
years—what signified two years, when it was to
be their first and last separation? For, if he could
not obtain the leave he was all but promised, it
was arranged that she should go out to Calcutta,
and their marriage take place there.

He rallied at last under all these cheering
suggestions, and gradually dropped into that
talk so fascinating to Promessi Sposi, in which
affection and worldliness are blended together,
and where the feelings of the heart and the
furniture of the drawing–room divide the interest
between them. There was a dash of romance,
too, in the notion of life in the far East—some
far–away home in the Neilgherries, some lone
bungalow on the Sutlej—that helped them to
paint their distant landscape with more effect,
and they sat, in imagination, under a spreading
plantain on the Himalaya, and watched the blood–
red sunsets over the plains of Hindostan.

Time passed very rapidly in this fashion.
Love is the very sublime of egotism, and people
never weary of themselves. The last evening—
sad things these last evenings—came, and they
strolled out to take a last look on the lake and
the snow–white Alps beyond it. The painful
feeling of having so short a time to say so much
was over each of them, and made them more
silent than usual. As they thus loitered along,
they reached a spot where a large evergreen oak
stood alone, spreading its gigantic arms over the
water, and from which the view of the lake
extended for miles in each direction.

"This is the spot to have a summer–house,
Florry," said Loyd; "and when I come back
I'll build one here."

"You see there is a rustic bench here already.
Harry made it."

Scarcely were the words uttered than she felt
her cheek burning, and the tingling rush of her
blood to her temples.

"Harry means Mr. Calvert, I conclude?"
said he, coldly.

"Yes," said she, faintly.

"It was a name I have never uttered since I
passed this threshold, Florry, and I vowed to
myself that I would not be the first to allude to
it. My pledge, however, went no further, and
I am now released from its obligation. Let us
talk of him freely."

"No, Joseph, I had rather not. When he
was leaving this, it was his last wish that his
name was not to be uttered here. We gave him
our solemn promise, and I feel sure you will not
ask me to forget it."

"I have no means of knowing by what right
he could pretend to exact such a promise, which,
to say the least, is a very unusual one."

"There was no question of a right in the
matter. Mr. Calvert was here as our friend,
associating with us in close intimacy, enjoying
our friendship and our confidence, and if he had
reasons of his own for the request, they were
enough for us."

"That does not satisfy me, Florence," said he,
gravely.

"I am sorry for it. I have no other explanation
to give you."

"Well; I mean to be more explicit. Has he
told you of a correspondence that passed between
us?"

"Once for all, Joseph, I will not be drawn
into this discussion. Rightfully, or the reverse,
I have given my word, and I will keep it."

"Do you mean to say that to any mention of
this man's name, or to any incident in which it will
occur, you will turn a deaf ear, and not reply?"

"I will not speak of him."

"Be it so. But you will listen to me when I
speak of him, and you will give my words the
same credence you accord to them on other
things. This is surely not asking too much?"

"It is more, however, than I am willing to
grant."

"This becomes serious, Florence, and cannot
be dismissed lightly. Our relations towards
each other are all but the closest that can bind
two destinies. They are such as reject all
secresy—all mystery, at all events. Now, if
Mr. Calvert's request were the merest caprice,
the veriest whim, it matters not. The moment
it becomes a matter of peace of mind to me it
is no longer a trifle."

"You are making a very serious matter of
very little," said she, partly offended.

"The unlimited confidence I have placed, and
desire still to place, in you, is not a little
matter. I insist upon having a full explanation."

"You insist?"

"Yes, I insist. Remember, Florence, that
what I claim is not more my due for my sake
than for your own. No name in the world
should stand between yours and mine, least of
all that of one whom neither of us can look on
with respect or esteem."

"If this be the remains of some old
jealousy——"

"Jealousy! Jealousy! Why, what do you
mean?"

"Simply that there was a time when he