Half-way down the bank, but untouched
by the light of sunset, lay a young man,
indolently reclining on one elbow, and smoking
a cigar; the leaves of his sketch-book
being turned over by the gentle wind.
He was negligently dressed, in a fashionable
and luxurious style. A small brown moustache
shaded his mouth; and I could not
help noticing that he was handsome. He
looked up vacantly, as I pushed the branches
on one side; and met my gaze, as I walked
past, with a cold, steady, insolent stare.

Surely the weather must have suddenly
changed; else what was it that heated me in
a moment; that parched my lips, and made
my skin so dry and feverish; that blurred
the sunset, and caused strange lights to dance
and flicker redly before my eyes?

I would not turn to look at them . Why
should I? What did it matter to me if two
young people chose to meet each other, on a
spring evening, by the side of a river?
Nothing—less than nothing. Letty had
never cared for me; why then allow myself
to be disturbed by such a trifle? Nevertheless,
I would not go into the house just yet.
I would wait for my lady by the thorn-tree
in the hollow, and she should see how lightly
I took it. I knew that she must be at home
by half-past nine, to be in time for prayers.

She came, as I expected. I could see her,
as she turned the corner, coming slowly along
the path, in a musing mood; her eyes bent
on the ground. She stood still for a moment
when she perceived me, undecided which
way to turn; but there was no other path,
without going a long way round, so she came
on steadily, as though she had not seen me.

"Good evening, Miss Letty; I hope you
have enjoyed your ramble."

"Very much," she quietly replied.

"Do you always choose such handsome
young gentlemen for your companions, when
you take a walk—gentlemen with moustaches,
too, that cannot find a civil word for
poor country folk?"

She was silent for a moment or two; then
turning toward me with eyes brimful of tears,
"O Thurston," she said, "this is not like
you! You are unkind. I am in your power,
and you take advantage of it."

I could not bear to think that I had caused
her a moment's pain. Anything rather than
that. The sight of her tears brought back
my better self at once.

"Dearest," I replied,—" let me call you so
once, if never again—I have loved you
tenderly and well for three happy years. I
have long seen that you did not love me in
return; but, till this evening, I never knew
that your affections belonged to another.
Can you wonder that the cup was bitter to
my lips ? I was rude to you a moment ago;
pray forgive me; and do not fear that I shall
offend you on that score again. I trust that
you will be happy; but, before I leave you,
let me ask you one question: Does your
father know, does Grace know, that your
walks are no longer solitary?"

"Neither of them knows yet," she replied
with some hesitation.

"Tell them at once, then," I said. "Do
not slight their love so far as to keep them
in ignorance of what they should be the first
to learn."

"Not yet—not yet!" she hurriedly replied.
"They will both know all in good time, and
you also. It is a secret at present, but
everything will soon be cleared up and
explained; and Thurston, dear Thurston! if
you do really love me, you must promise me,
solemnly promise me, that you will not reveal
what you have seen, or what I have told you
this evening—not to any one without my
permission."

"I promise you," I replied sadly. "But
O Letty! let me entreat you, once more, to
keep it a secret from your father no longer."

"I cannot tell him," she said. " You do
not know all, or you would not press me.
Remember what you have promised; and
Thurston, believe me, you will find your
consolation where you least expect it."

I kept my promise and told no one. Every
evening she went out for an hour or more,
taking care to return in time for prayers; and,
as this was a habit which she had generally
practised in fine weather, no suspicions were
excited at home. From inquiries made by me
in Heatherslack, I learnt that the stranger's
name was Reginald Cave, Esquire; that he
came from London; that he was apparently
a young man of fortune; that he was staying
at the best inn in the village; and that he
spent the greater part of his time in sketching
the picturesque features of the neighbourhood.
I never saw Letty and him together
after that first meeting. I avoided them, and
took care that my walks were in a direction
quite opposite to theirs. For all I had seemed
to yield up Letty so easily in our conversation
beneath the thorn-tree, it was not till after
many a stern encounter, all alone on the dark
moorlands, with the raging passion at my
heart, that I finally conquered, and could
truly say I was free. It seemed so hard
at that time, while the struggle was going on,
to have to yield up to another, all that I
cherished most on earth; and to see all my
brightest hopes vanish like the rosy mists of
morn, leaving the dark crags of life bare and
stern before me! It is sufficient to say that
I conquered; and that from that hour my
life took quite a different colour, and its
purposes shaped themselves to quite different
ends. Sitting here in this calm aftertime—
calm in its freedom from such heartburnings
and internal strife—I sometimes ask myself
whether that loss was all loss to me, or
whether there was not something gained:
something gained in the power of self-control,
in the lesson of self-abnegation then first
learnt, in the breaking of a wider horizon;
and, later on, in the birth of that star, in