"Good Heavens!'' said the young man—
"that was not my meaning. I appealed to
these things but as witnesses of the position in
which we stood to one another. Your acceptance
alone gave them value. At least, spare me
the pain of looking upon what you approved—
accepted—have used, and worn. Bestow them
upon whom you will, destroy them, do anything
but fill my rejected hand with my gifts, alike
deemed worthless."

"I am too easily entreated, much too easily,"
said Miss Mildred, looking so exquisitely
beautiful, that poor George's heart thrilled with a
wild despair. "But, on certain conditions, I
may grant, you this one thing. Do you hear,
sir? It must be distinctly provided and
understood, that, neither by look, word, nor deed,
will you ever recur to the position we have
lately held to one another. Do you agree?"

"I am at your mercy. But——"

"Now, remember, I never threaten. I act,"
said the imperious young lady. "The coolest
footing of ordinary acquaintance. Think of
me, when you must think (and don't say I didn't
frankly warn you against doing so at all), no
worse than circumstances seem to demand, for,
somehow, I would like to retain the—the fringe
—the hem, though somewhat frayed—of your
good opinion—honest simple garment as it was!
And now, Sir George Gosling, as I believe I
have already remarked, farewell! Be happy."

She rose, with a company-air, to which
George would have preferred a stab, and seemed
expecting him to leave her. But the young man
still hesitated. The enigma was yet unsolved.

"Miss Mulcaster," he said, very calmly, "I
have bowed to your decision, and, to the utmost
of my ability, I will observe your somewhat
difficult conditions. I put aside all pretence of a
right to question you, and, only as a matter of
further generosity on your part, do I entreat of
you to furnish me with some clue to the fault—
the misadventure—I know not how to term it—
that has produced this change. You see I do
not plead for a reversal of the sentence, I do but
inquire its provocation."

Mildred looked sorrowfully at the imploring
face of her young lover.

"You ask what you have done? Nothing."

"Nothing? No fault?"

"None—of your own."

""What, then, can you mean?"

"The errors of one generation," said the
young lady, gravely, "are frequently adopted
by its successors. So far, Sir George, you
cannot be held guiltless, and must, at all events,
bear the penalty, like others of your name."

"My ancestors have not, I believe, been
wholly undistinguished," replied the young man,
with quiet dignity. "True, in the course of a
descent of more than twenty generations, some
unworthy deed may have cast a temporary stain
oil our escutcheon, but——"

"The crime to which I refer," said Miss
Mulcaster, putting her handkerchief to her
eyes, "has been transmitted—wilfully and
wittingly—from sire to son. Your n—n——"

The word was lost in a suffocating sob.
Mildred was weeping without restraint.

"My what?" said her bewildered lover.

"N—na—name!"

"Name! What name?"

"Nonsense! You know I like G—George,"
sobbed the young lady. "It's the—oth—the
other. How your e—eldest ancestor could have
c—come by it, is a m—mys—mystery. Stupid
old b—b—booby!"

"Booby!" repeated George, aghast,

"Enough of this," exclaimed the spirited
young beauty. "No power on earth would
induce me to appear in society burdened with
the style and title of Lady Gosling. And that
is the secret you wanted."

There was something in her manner that,
enamoured as he was, irritated George. He drew
himself up rather haughtily.

"Seeing that it is the prevailing custom," he
remarked, "for ladies to assume the name of
those they honour with their hands, Miss
Mulcaster must surely have had this terrific
condition within her contemplation when she
engaged herself to my unworthy self."

"She had," replied the young lady—" she
had, however, reasonable grounds for hoping
that the absurdity which, you yourself must
admit, attaches to your name, might be softened
—either by returning to what, I make no doubt,
was the original spelling—Gausselin—or by the
simple introduction of a t in the middle, Gostling,
you know—which, with the o very long,
wouldn't be so bad. Both these hints were
suggested to you—once by dear mamma, once
by Loucy—but, except eliciting a display of temper
for which, I dare say, you were afterwards
sorry (if you were not, it wasn't my fault), the
remonstrance had no effect."

"Fancy remonstrating with a man on the
name his fathers have borne for six centuries!"
said George. "I should have been greatly to
blame if I had allowed you for one moment to
believe that I could comply with either of your
ingenious schemes for the amelioration of my
patronymic. Still, Miss Mulcaster permitted
her engagement to continue."

"She did. (It's a capital idea of yours, that
of speaking in the third person, as if I were
at the antipodes.) Miss Mulcaster, sir, acted
as you describe. She was, in some respects, a
very remarkable woman—possessing considerable
strength of mind, and singular persistence
in purpose. She fought with her own prejudices,
and imagined, at one time, she had overcome
them. She liked—she honoured—nay, well,
she loved—the bearer of a hideous name. But,
under the actual burden of that name, her
nature would have pined, succumbed."

"Enough, Miss Mulcaster," said the young
baronet, thoroughly roused. "I have the
honour to wish you good morning."

"I am not jesting, Geo—Sir George"—(and
the young lady became suddenly grave). "Do
not leave me under a false impression. I
did strive—strive honestly—to overcome what
you are free to call my folly, but in vain. It is