"They must settle it between them," she muttered to herself as she did so. "After what he told me, I ain't afeard of him! And very fortunate it is, to be sure, that he should be thinking of another, or else he'd be sartain to fall in love with Miss Minnie, and that wouldn't do!" And, consoling herself in her error, she trotted down the passage after Sylvia.

"Gillett—Mrs. Gillett!" cried Minnie, flying across the room to the closing door; "let me out!"

But the door was locked in an instant. Sylvia had turned away, and Gillett followed, blessing herself for the clever manner in which she met poor Miles's wishes (for she really liked him,) without actually compromising herself by arranging a meeting. Minnie turned, and was going out by the window, as she had entered, wondering much at the housekeeper's strange behaviour, when, in turning, she beheld Miles. She started back, uttering a half scream.

"Pray, do not be alarmed, Miss Dalzell," he said, advancing courteously—"'tis I, Miles Tremenhere, here, and with Mrs. Gillett's consent; may I speak a word to you?"

"You here, Mr. Tremenhere—and with Mrs. Gillett's connivance?"

"I here, Miss Dalzell—you may indeed be amazed; but pray, pardon my audacity, but I have something to tell you, for which reason I am here. May I act most unceremoniously in your own house, and offer you a chair?"

She bowed as he did so, and seated herself, though in much perplexity of thought.

"I would speak to you," he said seriously, standing beside her, "of one you take an interest in."

"Mary Burns!" she cried. "Oh! pray be seated, and tell me of her. I went to the cottage at six this morning, but it was vacant."

"Did you, indeed!" he exclaimed, gazing in deep admiration upon the lovely face raised to his in confidence and innocence. "I wish I had divined that; how very good you are, Miss Dalzell!—this will much gratify poor Mary, she is so crushed and bowed down."

"Oh! do not say I am good; 'tis a sacred duty we owe a distressed fellow creature. We should not trample upon the fallen, lest they rise against us, and themselves in bitterness: where is she, Mr. Tremenhere?"

But Tremenhere's thoughts had changed their current; might he not be pardoned for seeking a motive to interest in his fate that young heart? Within the last half hour he had been searching the haunts of memory, and she had given him back a sunny day, ten long years gone by.

"It is a great tax on a memory so young as yours, Miss Dalzell," he said, without having even heard her question, "to ask it to look back ten years; can you recall the time when you were seven years of age?"

"Oh, well!" she answered unhesitatingly, as if she had known him all the intervening space between that, and the present. "I had never quitted home then, since when, I have been much at Loughton, with my cousin Dora; but I remember that happy time well. I was a very, very joyous child. They say, those kind of children know much and early trouble; but I don't believe that—do you?"

"Heaven keep you from it!" he energetically said, "I was a very happy boy."

Minnie looked up in his handsome face, and her bright blue eyes clouded over—"Poor Miles Tremenhere!" she thought.

"You used to ride," he continued, "on a pretty grey pony, and a large dog always followed it."

"Yes!" she answered amazed; "and old Thomas, my uncle's coachman, walked beside me; but how do you know this, Mr. Tremenhere?"

"One day," he replied, "a young man's horse ran away with him, in the long lane skirting your grounds at Gatestone, and upset the grey pony and its pretty burthen. As soon as he recovered the command of his horse, he returned and found the little girl, not hurt, but very much frightened; so he dismounted and took the pretty child on his knee, and her little arms clung round his neck, as she assured him she was not hurt. He often thought of that sweet girl, and her long flaxen curls; but somehow, he lost her recollection, amidst the waves of the troubled life he afterwards was doomed to. He only found it again, half an hour ago; then he again saw, as now he sees in Memory's magic glass, that sweet infant face, the little arms so confidently round his neck, and the kiss she gave him on both cheeks. I was that young man—man even then,—you, that pretty loving child, Miss Dalzell."

Minnie was rosy red to her very brow as he spoke of that kiss; then with a native grace, all her own, she held out both her tiny hands, and all smiles as he grasped them, said—"Oh, Mr. Tremenhere! I do remember it; I am so delighted we have met before this sad time to you; it gives me a right to defend, and think well of you."

What would Mrs. Gillett have said, had she seen Miles's dark moustache pressed upon Minnie's lovely hands, in speechless gratitude?

"I don't know how it happened," he said, after a moment's silence; "but there was but little intimacy between our families. I came frequently here, but then I rambled every where; moreover, I had, and have, a passion for my pencil, and strolled about the grounds, sketching every thing, I had so many favourite old trees and sites here."

"And do you sketch now? have you any of these? I should much like to see them."

"Yes, I sketch still, and, more than that, I paint, chisel my thoughts in marble—all."

"What a delicious pastime!" she cried, enthusiastically.

"'Tis more than that to me," he answered, and a cloud passed over his brow; "it is now a profession to me—one ardently pursued, for a motive hallows it!"

"Your mother!" she uttered.

"Thank you, for that good, sympathetic thought, Miss Dalzell. I may freely speak to you—we are not strangers in soul—I feel that. Yes; my mother—my good, pure, calumniated mother! I have vowed every energy of my life to one cause—the re-establishment of her fame. Only money can do it: I am poor: I have powerful and rich enemies to fight against; but patience, if wealth is to be gained, I will win it; and then there is not a corner of the wide world I will leave unsearched, till I prove her to all, what I know her to be. Every thought of my soul is in this good work."

"Oh, may Heaven prosper so pure a wish!" she cried. "Would that I were rich! I would say, Mr. Tremenhere, for the sake of a sister woman's fame, let me join you in this holy deed."

Minnie spoke in all the enthusiasm of her gentle, but energetic nature; and as she desired, so would she have done, had fortune willed it. Tremenhere's outcast heart was in fearful danger; had she sought through all Cupid's quiver for an arrow the most deadly, she could not have found one better, than this interest in his mother, to win Miles's affections. For some moments they did not speak; he felt that the weakness creeping over him must be checked. His cause was too sacred a one to be relinquished, like a second Marc Anthony's, for woman's love. And what Cleopatra could ever have ranked in power with Minnie Dalzell? He felt this, and changed the subject, telling her that Mary and her mother had that day quitted Yorkshire for London, to avoid persecution. It was a delicate subject to touch upon to Minnie, therefore he did so as lightly as possible; but not so much so but that she discovered, to her increased horror of him, that Marmaduke Burton had been Mary's betrayer. But time flew—it flies ever when we require its stay—it flies, carrying with it our joys and smiles; and oh, how it lingers over our tears! Bathed in them, its wings know no vigour or volition. Minnie would gladly have remained longer; but she knew her absence would shortly cause inquiry and search. Miles durst not solicit another meeting; for how excuse the request? What interests had they in common, now Mary was gone? Alas! none, which either might avow. Little as they were acquainted, it was a moment of regret to each, when, without a word asked of future hope, or promise given, Miles stepped through the window, in the now deepened shades of evening—almost night. He could but thank and bless her gentle heart, and say, how truly! that he never should forget her kindness and confidence,—that he probably, on the following day, should be far from Gatestone; but, at her request, he would send some sketches to Mrs. Gillett for her, in memory of their meeting; and one should be of their first one. Twice he turned to say good-bye; and the last time he lingered, and lingered, over the little white hand, on which the lip, though half in fear, fell at last; and he bade Heaven bless her, for his mother's sake. She watched his tall figure as he strode through the garden—then the night concealed him from her view—she crept to the window and listened, but the footsteps were lost on the turf; and here Mrs. Gillett turned the key in the door, and entered. Minnie turned hastily round.

"Is he gone?" asked the woman, in a whisper.

"Yes," uttered Minnie sadly. "Poor man—poor creature! Oh, Gillett, what a wicked man Marmaduke Burton is!"

"Is he? Oh! may be not—he thinks he's right; may be he is, may be he isn't—who can say?" Policy had stepped in again, her handmaiden. "One thing I'm very glad of, Miss Minnie, that Mr. Miles is an engaged man."

"Engaged!" cried the girl, surprised; "to whom?"

"I don't know, but he solemnly assured me he was, or else be sure I wouldn't have consented to his seeing you alone. People soon fall in love—I know I did with poor, dear Gillett; but I never knew it till he fell out of the apple-tree, and dessicated his shoulder. And I'm sure, when they strapped him down in the chair, to pull it back again, (it was sadly put out,) I felt in such an agonized state, as if vultures were feedin' on my vitals! Ah! that's true love, Miss Minnie—I hope you may never know how sharp its tooth is, for it gnaws through every barricade, as one may say."

Minnie was in deep thought, thinking and wondering what sort of person Miles loved: Was she dark?—fair? and, above all, did she love him very much? She thought—indeed, she was sure—that she should love such a man! In a very meditative mood, she entered the drawing-room.

Miles sped away across fields, once his, to the homely farmer's, (Weld,) where, we have said, he had taken up his abode. He, too, was in deep cogitation; his mind filled with thoughts of Minnie. With an artist's eye, he remembered every outline of her lovely face and form: there was something so seraphic in it: for a while it obliterated all bitterer memories—cousin, mother, all. Then, as he awoke from a day-dream of what might possibly have been, a double flood of indignation and hatred rushed through his heart towards Marmaduke. "I would have willingly shared all with him," he cried aloud, "so he had left me name, and her fame; with these I might perhaps have won——" He paused. "Lady Dora her cousin, too! strange I should never have thought of that! But, then, 'tis ever so; we sit down contentedly under a happy influence of sunlight, unquestioning whether it will last, or wherefore it shines, whence it comes. That would have been the maddest dream of any. Proud! oh, Juno herself fabled Juno not prouder! There were many things in that girl I could not fathom: Was she really so proud? or, Had her heart a softer feeling beneath that mantle? or, Was it merely woman's love of enchaining, which made her so gentle, yielding, almost loving, only to frown down upon the half-uttered hopes her manner gave birth to? I remember the day she was leaving; I am not a vain man, but assuredly there was a tear in her eye, and the hand, for the first time, touched mine—how cold her's was! That was vanity. Her manners piqued me, her beauty dazzled; but I forgot her a week afterwards, and worked at the statue for which she had been my model, as calmly as if no line of it were drawn in vain imitation of her matchless grace. But I forgot her!—could I forget Miss Dalzell?" He was silent for a long time, and walked onward in thought. "I will leave this place," he said at last, speaking aloud—that habit which denotes the lonely man—speaking aloud, not to forget the tone of a human voice. "I will leave this, and then forget that sweet, fair face; I cannot allow my heart the luxury even of that thought. I require all its energies—it must be vigorous, Miles, vigorous, for it's worldly encounter, not enervated by love! Pshaw! leave love to boys—I am a man—a sad, stricken man—what have I to do with love? Why, my hair will be silvering soon, and how might I mingle such, with those glorious wreaths of golden shade, as she lay on my bosom! Away, away!" he cried, groaning deeply. "This is a devil's vision, to tempt me aside, from duty to a saint! What a beautiful thing nature is!" he continued, after a pause. "What act of art, however gorgeous her colouring, could compete with that one—so beautiful—so pure—so perfect—when Minnie Dalzell put her two fair hands in childish confidence in mine!" Again he walked on in silence, and as he entered Farmer Weld's door, he muttered, "I will leave this place to-morrow!"

The morrow rose. Does she in rising lay in her lap, and survey all the deeds of the day? or is it an act at eve, when retiring? In either case, how she must sigh over those of omission and commission, and regret that she should be the involuntary parent of them all! She rose, and with her Lady Dora, earlier than usual; she looked thoughtful, pale, and irresolute. Were these caused by Minnie—who had spent two good hours the previous night in her dressing-room, confiding to her cousinly ear all about Miles Tremenhere? Dora had listened, and Minnie was too little accustomed herself to conceal her feelings, to note the painful struggle the other had, to be in seeming quite calm. Much she argued with Minnie—mere cold, worldly motives, for not seeing Miles, for refusing to do so peremptorily, should he seek her; as if Minnie could do any thing in a peremptory manner, especially a thing calculated to wound this fallen man! Dora found her resolute, however, in one way—not to do so, but leave all to chance. He was going—she pitied him—always had done so since she heard his story. She hated Marmaduke Burton—always had—and would now, more than ever—she would. In vain Dora spoke of position; he was rich, Minnie had nothing, and her aunts were resolved she should settle near them. "Well, they cannot force me to marry at all," answered she; "so I'll die an old maid, or rather live one first, with dear aunt Dorcas."

But Dora could gain no promise about Miles Tremenhere.

"I may never seek him," said Minnie. "I'm not in love—oh! not at all; but, if we do meet, I will hold out my hand if the squire and all the household are by to see! Has he not known me since I was seven years of age? and do you think I am going to turn away from a friend because he is poor? No, cousin dear, I wish I were a man, I'd fight for Miles Tremenhere—poor fellow!"

It is questionable whether, had she been one, she would have blushed so deeply, and spoken so enthusiastically, though her generous nature would have made her uphold the wronged. A handsome man is very dry fuel near a young lady's warm heart—her enthusiasm soon glows into a blaze.