her. We all know what a terrible lever to
love is fanaticism, and the belief that love is
duty.

Norah saw nothing. She had been too
long accustomed to the fiery noon of Gregory's
passion to see what forms were floating in
the soft dim twilight of Edmund's tender
affection. Unconsciously she encouraged what
she did not recognise. By her gentle kindness
and her evident preference; by her silent
friendship; by her girlish confidence, she
aided hourly in consolidating the fatal fancy
she would have destroyed at once, had she
known of it. But it never occurred to her
that he meant love when she meant only kindness,
or that she was answering a passion
when she gave back mere kindness. Then, he
was so young—such a mere boy!—only just
her own age!

Gregory had now been away three weeks.
He wrote letters daily that might have been
traced in fire: so fiercely loving and so
full of burning anguish. They were less
painful to Norah than his presence; but,
though only letters, they were singularly
trying to her. She dreaded them in a weaker
degree, but in the same manner as she used
to dread his visits and his passionate prayer:
"Norah, let me speak with you!"

He said nothing of his return, and nothing
of his business. The Colonel alone knew
what that business was; and was discreet.
Thankfulness at his absence swallowed up
curiosity in Norah, and hope in Lucy; so
that days and days wore on, and no mention
was made of his return. And still Lucy's
brothers stayed at Lyndon Hall, and
Edmund's soul went deeper beneath the waves
which give back nothing living.

But Launce? O! good-tempered, genial,
soft-hearted Launce looked on and wondered;
and, when he did not wonder, laughed.
As for the Colonel, he thought his way was
clear before him. Surely he had secured all
the approaches! Surely she had not an inch
of ground left for defence or for retreat; but,
more surely than all, she was willing to
capitulate, and did not seek for defence or retreat.
And he—he would be proud of his beautiful
prize; he would parade her before the eyes
of the world, as a priceless gem in a gorgeous
setting. He was satisfied there were no
flaws in the jewel, and that he would not be
disgraced by wearing it. So, the sooner it was
set upon his hand the better for her, and the
happier for him. But this was just what
Lucy did not want. It was premature and
disorganising. The explanation must be
delayed at least till Norah's affair was settled;
and yet the Colonel had grown so pressing.
What should she do? Foolish girl that
she had been!—why had she heaped up
the coals so high? What she had lighted
for amusement in the first instance, threatened
conflagration now to all around; and
no one was to blame but herself. She could
have wept at seeing her mine sprung too
quickly, and at her inability to stave off the
dreaded hour. But weeping her spiteful
tears, or smiling her most blandishing smiles,
it was all one to Fate and the Colonel: the
hour came on inexorably. Colonel Lyndon
of Lyndon Hall made her a formal offer of
his hand and fortune, in the bay-window of
the drawing-room; sitting on the ottoman,
and offering this precious prize in such a tone
of provoking certainty, that Lucy could have
boxed his ears with good-will. As she could
not afford herself that satisfaction, she
accepted him.

"At all events," said Lucy to herself, " if
Gregory and Norah do marry, and I do not
wish to tie myself to this old gentleman—but
Lyndon is a fine place!—I can always break
it off when I like. Better that chance, than
refusing him, and being obliged to leave
Lyndon and to have all my plans destroyed."
"But no one was to know of it," said Lucy,
cosily. "It was their dear little secret, and
they would keep it sacred for a few days
yet." And the Colonel assented. Thus Lucy
gained more breathing time.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

"SEE, how beautiful it is," said Edmund,
standing on the flight of steps leading to the
lawn. " Will you not come out into the
garden, Miss Lyndon? Pray do! it is so
delicious, and it will do you good."

He asked her earnestly; and Norah
smiled, and stepped through the open
window. They strolled on the lawn,
Edmund talking as she loved to hear him, in
that deep, gentle, half poetic, half metaphysical,
and wholly vague and dreamy way of his,
which, by its very vagueness, seemed to open
new worlds to Norah. She listening quietly
and with a certain absorption to which poor
Edmund gave a warmer parentage than simple
intellectual pleasure. Interested and
unconscious, Norah by degrees drew towards the
shrubbery. Still listening, she passed through
the narrow path, and up the long walk, to
the garden-chair beneath the beech-trees.

"Let us sit here," said Edmund.

Norah disregarded the omen of place, and
sat down. He stopped speaking. Surprised
at his silence, she looked up. The look which
met her's—the plaintive, long, beseeching
look—surprised her still more. But she did
not read it correctly.

"May I speak to you candidly and without
reserve?"

"Yes," answered Norah, perplexed.

"Miss Lyndon—" he began; but his voice
failed him. " I am afraid of displeasing you,"
he then said anxiously.

"O, no! you cannot displease me, Mr.
Thorold. What have you to say? I am not
afraid of any explanations with you," and
she smiled.

"Thank you—thank you for that word!
Then you will hear me patiently and quietly
and without anger, whatever you may reply?"