and gently, as the love of kindred—father,
mother, brothers, sisters—grows up in our
hearts, until it becomes a part of our nature,
and we can no more remember when it was not
there, than we can recal the days of our earliest
infancy. Mine was not a passionate nature, but
it was a clinging one. Love, with me, was not
the fierce devouring overmastering feeling that I
have seen it in others. It grew to be a part of
me: an ever-present, steady, strong affection,
that claimed no passionate expression nor
violent outbursts, but that lived in my life,
and breathed in my breath, and took root in
my innermost and deepest heart of hearts. Yes,
it was love that I felt for Horace Lee; real,
true, undying love. Undying, for O a long
life lies between those youthful days and this
present time in which I write, and O, my Lucy,
for whom I write, I love him to this hour!

Although I can now, on looking back, clearly
understand what were my own feelings, you
must not suppose that I did so at nineteen. I
never thought of " questioning my heart," or
"analysing my inner consciousness," or of
attempting any of the profound metaphysical
problems which—the circulating library informs us
—the girls of this generation are accustomed to
solve. Insomuch, that sometimes I feel almost
afraid lest they should " analyse" all their
emotions away, or lose the sweet evanescent freshness
of them, and leave only a little earthy deposit at
the bottom of the crucible. But when I look
around me, and see eyes as bright, and cheeks
as blooming, as those other eyes and cheeks I
saw so long ago, I believe that fresh
unsophisticated hearts come, according to the
goodness of God, to gladden the earth as naturally
as the daisies; and I revert to my old comforting
conviction, that when youth and love quite go out
of the world, the world itself must go out too.

I look back on that girl at the Gable House
as on another creature. I smile at her follies
and simplicities, and weep at her sorrows, and
grieve over the bitter days that lie before her.
Ah, how young she seems, with her nineteen
years, and how old am I, Aunt Margaret!

Well! As I have said, Horace Lee became
the central figure in my life, his presence made
me quietly glad, and I loved my clear guardians
and benefactors the better that they also loved
him. But it was all unconsciously, or at least
without thought, on my part. Horace was
like a son of the house, and uncle used to call
him and Anna his two spoiled bairns, Anna
had given way to no outbreaks of temper since
that stormy night of her wilfulness about the
singing, and we hoped that, as she grew
older, she was gaining self-control and gentleness.
My thoughts often recurred to what Miss
Wokenham had said to me on that same evening,
and I wondered what " breakers ahead" she
could have foreseen, or fancied she foresaw.
I came at last to the conclusion that she
dreaded trouble for us all from Anna's
violent temper, knowing, as she well did, how
unchecked by firm opposition that fiery spirit
had been from babyhood. I wished that
our good friend could have seen how pleasant
a change had come over my sister within the
last two months. I mentally resolved to give
her a glowing account of Anna's improvement
when I should write to Canada, so as to convey
to her that I understood what she had meant
by her warning, and to assure her that her
anxiety had been overstrained and needless.
Altogether, that winter evening was frequently
in my mind, for, from it, I dated the loss of my
little hair chain. Search was made for it on the
following morning, but vainly; and then the
preparations for our old schoolmistress's
wedding had sufficiently occupied us all, from the
kitchen-maid up to dear Aunt Gough.

Old Mr. Lee came occasionally to see us, and
to express to my aunt and uncle his sense of
their kindness and hospitality towards his son.

"Horace is doing well at Rotherwood's," said
the old gentleman. " At least, so they tell me.
Sir Robert"—this was the great baronet, Mr.
Lee's employer—" Sir Robert sent for Horace
to the Hall the other day, to speak about a
little matter of business, the draining of Meadow
Leas, and Sir Robert had him into the drawing-
room—into the drawing-room where my lady
was sitting—and made him stop to luncheon."

We were all uncomfortably dumb in a
moment, and I felt, without looking at him, that
Horace was crimson. But Mr. Lee went on
in his usual self-satisfied way, in happy ignorance
of the misery we were feeling.

"He stayed in the drawing-room, where my
lady was, full twenty minutes—from that to
half an hour, wasn't it, Horace?—and Sir
Robert shook hands with him when he came
away. Very gratifying. But they always have
been pleased to entertain a great respect
(however unmerited) for me."

Somehow or other, the fonder I grew of
Horace, the more I shrank from Mr. Lee. I
must have appeared a mere fool in his eyes,
for a perfect pall of silence and shyness seemed
to envelop me from head to foot when I was
in his presence. Anna, on the contrary, who
always was less diffident than I,—and with good
reason, for she was a bright winning creature,
with the lively frank manner that had never
known a chill or a rebuff,—Anna would laugh
and chat and play off her pretty airs on the old
gentleman with astonishing vivacity. He
admired her vastly, and called her all manner of
"sylphs," and "bnymphs," and " cruel charmers,"
and " fair enslavers:" compliments over which
Anna used to go into fits of laughter in private.
But she seemed determined to fascinate Mr.
Lee, and she certainly succeeded.

One day, when the spring was pretty far
advanced, and the young leaves and the tender grass
had put forth their first fresh delicious green,
Mr. Lee appeared at the Gable House early in
the forenoon. He had his chaise at the door, he
said, and was come to ask my aunt to do him
the honour of taking a drive. She had been
ailing somewhat during the last week, and he
thought that the bright sun and fresh air would
do her good.