Some one else had also seen Lady Dora—this was Aunt Sylvia. This busy, restless woman, had one decided affection—a love of gardening in all its branches. Her greatest crony after Dame Gillett, was John Gardener, as he had been surnamed, consequent upon his profession; for every thing is a profession now,—the humble trade eschews its name to become such, and professions, as they still are, are for the most part unmeaning words and falsehoods. Sylvia loved a garden, every atom of it,—kitchen, fruit, and flowers. She delighted in getting out spudding in it, as she termed it—a corruption of spading, we presume; but it was her own coined word, and meant, digging, weeding, sowing, and planting, a composite word of much meaning. This morning, like many others, she was up, and busily inspecting some little green tips just bursting through the earth, which she pronounced "loves of things;" when raising her head, to push back the spectacles she had put on for a closer inspection of her budding flowers, she saw Lady Dora pass through the little door into the fields. Her niece had not perceived her; she was bent double nearly, and in a grass-coloured muslin, which made her appear, in the distance, like a heap of short, newly-mown turf on the lawn. Up she jumped at this vision. "My niece, Lady Dora!" she exclaimed—even in thought she was "Lady Dora" to her—"where can she be going? I declare the young ladies of the present day, have the oddest manner of creeping about early in the morning; no good ever can come of it!" Thus soliloquizing, she stole after her, and, to her amazement, saw a man in the distance; who it was, she had not the slightest idea, not once dreaming of Tremenhere. Startled at the responsibility of so great a secret to herself alone, she hastened through the kitchen-garden to Mrs. Gillett's window, and rapping hastily until she summoned that familiar spirit to her aid, she imparted all her surprise to her no less astonished ear. Mrs. Gillett was literally lost in wonder; for she at once suspected that Tremenhere was the man, though she kept her suspicions to herself. This, then, was his engagement to which he had alluded; but how had it come about. She knew nothing about the portrait and Florence, or all would have seemed clear as noonday. In deep perplexity, with Sylvia's aid she mounted on a chair; and thus getting into the garden, accompanied her to the end of it, where they might, through the thick hedge on that side, see beyond. It was thus Minnie escaped seeing them, or their observing her.

"Can you imagine who the creature is?" (man she meant,) Sylvia asked.

"He's come a purpose!" ejaculated Gillett, pursuing her own private thoughts, not heeding the other's question.

"Who has come on purpose?" asked Sylvia, impatiently.

"Why, he, miss—you know who I mean. Lauks-a-mercy me! here'll be a to do! Lauks-a-mercy! and my lady, too!"

"Good gracious, Mrs. Gillett! will you tell me what you mean? Will you tell me what you mean?—who's that man?"

"Why, Mr. Tremenhere, to be sure!" answered the other, amazed at the question. Sylvia was silent. In the bottom of her heart she felt something like pleasure; she hated all men, pour cause, as the French so impressively say. She hoped some one would shoot this one for his audacity—he deserved it; then, too, she even felt a something of jealousy towards Lady Ripley, for marrying at all when she remained single, and especially an earl. She had a sort of idea, that only a certain quantum of mankind was by fate allotted to each family, and that this one, by his exalted rank, had appropriated all, and bestowed it upon only one—else, why were she and Dorcas single? In this mood of mind, she rejoiced at any thing to lower Lady Ripley's pride, and resolved silently to watch the course of events, and be guided by them how to act. Accordingly she bound down Mrs. Gillett to profound secresy; and, having watched the two separate at the garden gate, she entered the house by the back-door, leaving her confidant more puzzled than ever what to do, finding herself the repository of so many opposite secrets, and fearing events, should they clash in any way. Sylvia noticed every turn in Dora's countenance at breakfast, and, without surprise, listened to a half-smothered sigh. All seemed as clear as day to her idea. There was a private communication existing between Miles and Lady Dora; that was why he had come so unexpectedly to the neighbourhood—she was the magnet. She was in a mood to hate all—rejoice at any annoyance to others; for it was a little wounding, after all the trouble she had taken to bring about events, to see her pet, Mr. Dalby, quietly resigning, as was the case, his pretensions to Minnie's hand. Dalby was a prudent man, and, seeing the girl's evident repugnance towards himself, wisely said, "I shall never succeed; if I pursue her, I shall lose my friend—if I give her up at this stage of the affair, her dislike is not so apparent to others, but that the squire should owe me a debt of gratitude for withdrawing in his favour—I'll choose the squire!" Accordingly he resigned, and was once more reinstated in Marmaduke Burton's favour as one in whom he could trust. It was a complete game of cross purposes with almost all, under cloak of which the ones most interested passed comparatively unnoticed. One thing Lady Dora had accomplished by her morning walk. Miles Tremenhere turned thoughtfully away, and the result of his cogitations was a determination to remain some short time longer at Farmer Weld's—he must do so—had he not promised Minnie a sketch of Gatestone, and the surrounding scenery? In common politeness he must remain; so "common politeness," like many other things, bore the burthen which of right belonged to another—"inclination." Some days passed away. Lady Ripley spoke of shortly leaving for town. Dora had never spoken of her walk to Minnie, and she, grieved and wounded at this reserve, firmly resisted all manoeuvring on the other's part to discover her thoughts about Tremenhere. Marmaduke Burton was a constant visitor: he paid court to Lady Dora, in order (he thought) to pique Minnie. The fact was, Lady Dora's species of hatred towards Tremenhere made her, even though he could not see it, rejoice in showing favour to his rival cousin. This gave a zest—a sort of dreamy hope to his attentions; though in reality liking Minnie better, he would have preferred her proud, titled cousin: this was the man's meanness. Juvenal rejoiced, for both were his nieces, and, either way, his pet squire would be happily mated. Mr. Skaife was absent from the village for a while; so Dorcas looked on, in happy ignorance of much; whilst Sylvia, in the greatest error of any, held consultations with Mrs. Gillett, whose mind was nearly distracted by many confidences, and whose only consolation amidst all was, that, "most fortunately, Master Tremenhere didn't love Miss Minnie, so she was safe; and no blame could ever attach to her (Mrs. Gillett) for connivance in their meetings!"

Nearly two weeks passed thus, and Minnie sat alone in her own little room, where we first saw her; but the door is bolted, and she is sitting at the table in the centre of that room, on which several sketches in crayon are displayed. One little white hand supports her head, which is bent over these, and these represent, with a bold master-stroke, "Gatestone," seen from north, south, east, and west. Then there are sites and majestic trees, ruins and ivy-covered walls; all the most beautiful views on the banks of the Nidd are spread before her, over which her eyes wander; but the little white fingers close on one, and she raises it up, and looks almost tenderly upon it. 'Tis the sketch of a little girl on a pony, a large dog beside her, and leaning on the neck of the former animal is a tall young man. "Very like him even now," whispered she; "but what a little thing I was then! and to think he should have remembered it! Poor, dear Miles Tremenhere!" and she pressed the card-board to her lip. Was it the little girl's effigy she kissed? in truth, we fear it must be owned such was not the case. Moreover, our readers will perceive that Pity had strengthened her cause—he was "dear" as well as "poor" now. Lady Dora had much suffered from the various annoyances of her position: afraid to speak to Minnie, watching all, dreading all, and enraged with herself for a contradiction of feeling which would arise within her, despite every effort, when she thought of Miles. His pride had conquered her's: she had been foiled, and, in her discomfiture, she knew not where to seek comfort. Somehow, she could not banish him from her thoughts. She and her mother had left for a few days, on a visit near Ripon, and Gatestone had sunk into seeming peace. No one watched Minnie, she was in outward appearance as usual; but, while others planned for her, or permitted all care for the present to rest, she was weaving her own fate, and not as a child weaves, flowers: there were many thorns set within that band, which would bind her, perhaps. Minnie, unwatched, walked and rode as usual; in the latter case, with the fat old coachman as attendant, who had followed her even in the time of the grey pony. Poor, old, half-blind Thomas!—what knew he of love, or love's various ways? And when, one day, Minnie left him in charge of her black mare at a wayside house, after first dropping her at the ruins of an old castle, where she was going to wander a while and sketch, some four miles from home—how could he possibly guess that she would scarcely be seated on a moss-covered stone, before another human being would be beside her, her hand gently pressed in his? All this was very wrong, but the grey pony commenced it years before. Early associations accomplish more in half an hour than recent acquaintances in months: the childish heart takes an impression freely. Minnie had become the little, fair baby thing again, whilst conversing with Miles; and how or when they had met again, after the evening in Mrs. Gillett's room, matters little; they met accidentally on her part, and, like a child, she held out her hands rejoicing; and it was not till more than one of these meetings had taken place, that she discovered

And in making that discovery, she also awoke to the fact in her case—a most unhappy one—that as a woman, she loved. To whom could she tell that love? there was but one, Dora, and her secresy had engendered coldness. In the candour of her heart she had asked Miles why Dora had sought him that morning? but he merely attributed it to accident, and Dora's silence, made her convinced some other motive had induced her to seek him. Of his love towards herself she had no assurance—no promise—no pledge. She met him this day because he asked her to do so, to sketch with, and talk to him. More than once she had been on the point of telling "dear aunt Dorcas" all—her heart abhorred deceit; but then, when next she met Miles, he implored her so earnestly not to do so, that her lips became sealed; besides, until this day the meetings had been accidental—though hoped for, by her, watched for, by him.

"Minnie Dalzell," he said, "think what I should be here, were I prevented from seeing you; here I must remain a while. I have some business which forces my stay, and none to speak with but Farmer Weld's family; though good, excellent people, yet think how lost I should be without 'Baby Minnie' and her sketch-book to superintend and correct?"

And "Baby Minnie" feeling no harm to herself, certainly no wrong to another—held her peace "for pity's sake." "Should he ever say any thing more—more tender," she added, after a pause in her soliloquy, "then I'll tell aunt Dorcas!" Was it policy on his part not to startle, till he had secured, his timid bird? or was it that he really did not love her, that kept him silent? A little of both. He was not quite sure of his own heart; it had been so bound up in the one great object of his life, that he feared lest he were incapable of loving Minnie as she should be loved; he was perfectly unselfish. Accustomed to deep suffering, he would rather have gone, leaving his love untold, and bearing even the charge, on her part, of being a mere trifler, than give her only a half affection. It was true his heart bounded when they met, and every moment in her absence was a thought of love for her. He walked alone, and conversed alone, to the spirit at his side, ever present with him; but he knew man's nature so completely under the control of his passions, that for her sake he resolved to prove his own heart before he offered it to her. If he felt he ever could change, or love another, then would he leave without awakening her to the knowledge of her own affection, which he saw, but looked upon as a fledgling, which, by some accident, might never take wing.

"Again here!" she said, on the day we have spoken of, in the old ruin. "Do you know this must terminate soon? Dora will return, and Mr. Skaife; and when he is here, Aunt Dorcas generally accompanies me, with him to escort us."

"But not riding. She is not a horsewoman, you say?"

"True; but Mr. Skaife, at her request, becomes my companion, then Dora will be with me every day."

"Do you mean, Miss Dalzell, that I am never to see you?" and something like a sigh escaped him.

"Oh! I hope not, indeed. I should feel grieved at so sad a termination to our many pleasant hours together; but what can be done to smooth our rugged path, for we cannot disguise from ourselves that a very rugged one lies between us?"

"I never forget that! Would to heaven I could remove it! Time may—will, I should say," he cried, with energy; "but, to accomplish that glorious end, I must toil—toil—toil, and far away from this place, and——" he was going to say "you," he substituted "Yorkshire."

"'Tis very hard that, when we have known one another from childhood——"

"You forget I was a man then even."

"Well, then," she continued, "from my childhood, that we should be debarred from meeting freely; but why do you always correct me when I say our childhood? why are you so very anxious to make me remember that you are so much older than myself?"

"I say it, lest I should forget it."

"How do you mean? Where would be the harm?"

He looked at her so deeply, that her eyes fell beneath his glance, and she blushed.

"Where is your sketch-book?" he hastily said, looking away from her glowing face; but his eyes went lingeringly to other things.

"You have it in your hand! What are you thinking of, Mi—, Mr. Tremenhere?" she hastily substituted.

The sketch-book fell from his hand, and he grasped hers involuntarily, and the deep, dark eye grew full of passion, as it fixed itself on her face. "Call me," he whispered, "by that half-uttered name, and I will tell you why I always recall to my memory our difference of age."

But she was silent, trembling, and incapable of speech.

"Do say it; pray, utter it this once, and I will dare to believe you will not forget me—a poor, lonely man—when I go."

"I shall never forget you, Miles Tremenhere," she answered, gravely looking up. There was no blush or hesitation: there was only truth, and its ever accompanying fearlessness.

"Do you know, child," he exclaimed almost painfully, as he clasped her hand convulsively, "what you are doing this day? You are bending a strong, stern man, to womanly weakness; you are tearing every other thought from my heart, to engraft yourself there. Minnie, I have dreaded this moment; yet I had not the courage to fly you. I have said every day, 'To-morrow;' and that morrow has never come in which I could quit this neighbourhood."

"Hush!" she cried in alarm, looking round; "I heard a footstep." Her voice trembled with many emotions.

"There's no one here," he answered, scarcely glancing round. "It was perhaps my heart you heard beat; there are footfalls in that—those of remorse for my weakness—those of my mother's spirit deserting me; for I have sworn only to think of her. And yet, Minnie, do you know, amidst all this wild passion to-day, which your word, your utterance of my name, has called forth, I am not sure I truly love you! Were I certain of that, nothing could ever reconcile me to a separation from you. I would strain every nerve of my soul to make you love me; and, loving thus, ask you to be mine—in toil and poverty perhaps—assured that nothing could surpass in misery, separation from each other."

"Is your heart more difficult for you to read, than mine is for myself?" she asked, looking up in child-like confidence. "Mine is an open page, I know——"

"Do not speak what you think you read there, Minnie; hearts are deceitful things, like words in dead tongues: we must search well, to define the real signification of things written there. Love has a counterfeit—passion. If I knew mine, purely, truly yours, worthy of you—or if I knew you truly loved me—there is not that power on earth which should part us!"

"Surely," she whispered, in terror grasping his arm, "there is some one in that archway, yonder—I heard a step!"

"No, 'tis fancy," he replied, looking round; "my earnestness has startled you, poor child—poor child, indeed, if you loved me!—an outcast, a wanderer. Forget all we have been saying, Minnie," he added, sorrowfully; "for be sure of this, if we really love, or are to love, some great event will call that affection to light—prove and hallow it; for it will be based on esteem, else you had not trusted me so far, nor I, been so confident towards you. Come, let us leave this old ruin; you are terrified to-day. I will see you outside of its huge walls, and then we must part; once on your black mare, with old Thomas beside you, you will forget this. Let us go, child; why, you tremble still!" and, more with fatherly care than aught else, he drew her arm beneath his own, and they silently quitted the ruin.

"Now, will you doubt my perspicacity again, Formby?" cried Marmaduke Burton, stepping from beneath the dark archway, and dragging the half alive Juvenal after him. "I told you they met in secret. I wish we could have heard all they said."

"I'm horror-stricken!" shivered Juvenal, with genuine truthfulness. "What is to be done with her?"

"Lock her up! we'll soon hunt him out of this neighbourhood. Come out through this side-passage, my buggy's there; they must not know we heard them yet!"