girl like that think of me, if she knew what I
am—if she knew that I stole like a thief to the
window of my mother's house, and looked in,
shivering, a poverty-stricken wretch, come there
to ask for alms, while she herself glittered
among my mother's company, like the star of
beauty and youth she is? How could she but
despise me if she knew it! But she will never
know it, or me, most likely. I shall try to get
away and work out all this, far away in a country
where no memories of sin, and shame, and sorrow
will rise up around me like ghosts. I am
glad to have seen and spoken to Clare
Carruthers; it must do me good to remember that
such a woman really exists, and is no poet's or
romancer's dream. I am glad to think of her
as my mother's friend, companion, daughter
almost. My mother, who never had a daughter,
and has, God help her, no son but me! But I
shall never see her again, most likely. When
I reach the house, I shall find a pompous
servant, no doubt, charged with Sir Thomas's
compliments, and orders to show me round
a gallery of spurious Dutch pictures, copies
of Raphael and Carlo Dolce, and a lot of
languishing Lelys and gluttony-suggesting
Knellers."

With these disparaging words in his thoughts,
George Dallas reached the border of the park,
and found himself in front of the house. The
façade was even more imposing and beautiful
than he had been led to expect by the distant
view of it, and the wide arched doorway gave
admittance to an extensive quadrangle beyond.
A stone terrace stretched away at either side of
the entrance, as at Poynings. Standing on the
lower step, a tame peacock displaying his gaudy
plumage by her side, he saw Miss Carruthers.
She came forward to meet him with a heightened
colour and an embarrassed manner, and
said:

"I am very sorry, indeed, but Sir Thomas
and my aunt are not at home. They had no
intention of leaving home when I went out for
my ride, but they have been gone for some
time." She looked towards a servant who
stood near, and added: "I am so sorry; nothing
would have given my uncle more pleasure; but
if you will allow me, I will send——"

George interrupted her, but with perfect
politeness.

"Thank you very much, but, if you will allow
me, I will take my leave, and hope to profit by
Sir Thomas Boldero's kindness on a future
occasion." He bowed deeply, and was turning
away, when, seeing that she looked really
distressed, he hesitated.

"I will show you the pictures myself, if you
will come with me," she said, in a tone so frank,
so kindly and engaging, that the sternest critic
of manners in existence, supposing that critic
to have been any other than an old maid, could
not have condemned the spontaneous courtesy as
forwardness. "I am an indifferent substitute
for my uncle, as a cicerone, but I think I know
the names of all the artists, and where all the
pictures came from. Stephen," she spoke now
to the servant, "I am going to take this gentleman
through the picture-gallery—go on before
us, if you please."

So George Dallas and Clare Carruthers
entered the house together, and lingered over the
old carvings in the hall, over their inspection of
the sporting pictures which adorned it, and the
dining-room, over the family portraits in the
vestibule, the old china vases, and the rococo
furniture. Every subject had an interest for
them, and they did not think of asking
themselves in what that interest originated and
consisted. The girl did not know the young man's
name, but his voice was full of the charm of
sweet music for her, and in his face her fancy
read strange and beautiful things. He was an
artist, she knew already, which in sober language
meant that she had seen a very tolerable sketch
which he had made. He was a poet, she felt
quite convinced; for did he not quote Tennyson,
and Keats, and Coleridge, and even Herrick
and Herbert, as they wandered among the really
fine and valuable paintings which formed Sir
Thomas Boldero's collection, so aptly and with
such deep feeling and appreciation as could
spring only from a poetic soul?

It was the old story, which has never been
truly told, which shall never cease in the telling.
Both were young, and one was beautiful; and
though the present is an age which mocks at
love at first sight, and indeed regards love at all,
under any circumstances, with only decent
toleration, not by any means amounting to favour,
it actually witnesses it sometimes. The young
man and the girl—the idle, dissolute, perverted
young man—the beautiful, pure, innocent, proud,
pious young girl—talked together that spring
afternoon, as the hours wore on to evening, of
art, of literature, of music, of travel, of the
countless things over which their fancy rambled,
and which had wondrous charms for her bright
intellect and her secluded life, simple and ignorant
in the midst of its luxury and refinement.
All that was best and noblest in George's mind
came out at the gentle bidding of the voice that
sounded for him with a new, undreamed-of
music; and the hard, cold, wicked world in
which he lived, in which hitherto, with rare
intervals of better impulses, he had taken delight,
fell away from him, and was forgotten. The
girl's grace and beauty, refinement and
gentleness, were not more conspicuous than her
bright intelligence and taste, cultivated, not
indeed by travel or society, but by extensive
and varied reading. Such was the influence
which minute after minute was gaining upon
George. And for her? Her fancy was busily
at work too. She loved art; it filled her with
wonder and reverence. Here was an artist,
a young and handsome artist, of unexceptionable
manners. She adored poetry, regarding
it as a divine gift; and here was a poet—yes,
a poet; for she had made Dallas confess that,
he very often wrote "verses;" but that was
his modesty: she knew he wrote poetry—beautiful
poetry. Would he ever let her see any
of it?