"Hush!" said Dora, soothingly, some hours later, as she sat in Minnie's room beside her, holding a hand in her own. "All will be fair and bright soon, dear Minnie. Mr. Burton has been the mover in all this, to win you; I think that man loves you, in truth I do."

"And would you counsel me," cried the sobbing girl, "to marry so unworthy a creature?—this prying, mean, wicked man?"

Dora was silent a moment, in embarrassed thought; then she looked up and answered, though not at ease, evidently, "Why, he may seem many harsh things now; jealous of his cousin, he knows scarcely which way to act. I think you might be happy with him."

"With Marmaduke Burton!" she exclaimed, and her tears dried up in her starting eyes with wonder. "Marry him! I'd die sooner than even harbour the thought a moment! Oh, Dora! can you counsel me to so terrible a thing?"

"I do it, Minnie, to save you," her cousin replied, looking on the ground, and half-sighing as she spoke. "I dread your being led into some entanglement with—with—Mr. Tremenhere."

"And if I loved him, Dora, what then?"

"Oh, 'twould be a disgrace—an irretrievable, false step!" cried the other in agitation. "Think what he is! A man without name, position, character, perhaps—what do you know of him?"

"And what do you know against him, Dora?" asked Minnie, no longer sobbing, but in a low, firm voice.

"This—that, in my opinion, no honourable family should forget its dignity, and become allied to a blighted name, a name with the stain of——"

"Do not say that!" exclaimed her cousin, rising with energy, and pacing the room for an instant; then, as suddenly stopping before Dora, she continued, "Do not so harshly, and I am sure unjustly, judge a fellow-sister. 'Tis only in the hand of Time, the fate which may await ourselves; perhaps, calumnies we may suffer from—innocent now, innocent then, too. Dora, I love that man; I never knew how well, until I weighed it by my tears. I love him the deeper for every one I have shed this day for him!"

Dora was very pale, and did not reply.

Minnie continued: "Why do you hate him so much? Why did you seek him? Dora, dear Dora, tell me that!" She knelt before her cousin, on a stool at her feet, and, taking both hands, looked up in her face.

For some moments Dora was painfully silent. "No," she thought, "I will not tell her how weak I once was, in nearly loving him." This was the war within her. "I met him," she said at last, aloud, evading the first question, "because I feared you might love him. He bore the character, in Florence, of a reckless man—such a man as you, my innocent cousin, should not marry; I sought and begged him to quit this place and you!"

"Oh!" cried Minnie, blushing at the picture before her mind's eye, "he must have fancied I had spoken of him with love, and we had scarcely met then, except as strangers. I hope he does not think this now. How could you have sought him for such a motive as that?—how touch on so delicate a subject?"

"I feared nothing," answered Dora haughtily; "my own dignity prevented a false construction being placed upon what I said or did. You are a child in the ways of the world, and, in your innocence, might compromise yourself, family, all, with this nameless man. I do not say any thing personally against him, but our name has ever been without stain; do not you, Minnie, by a base alliance, stamp it with a reproach."

"Dora," and the girl spoke low and impressively, "I may never, perhaps, meet Miles Tremenhere again; I feel certain, if I do, that only trouble will arise from it, for all seem against him, poor fellow; but this believe, that, if I truly know myself—if that man love me, unless I become his wife, I never will marry another; for he is so surrounded in my heart by every noble sentiment, from his wrongs, and the holy mission he has taken upon himself, that none other could hold the place in my esteem which he does. Do you know, Dora, I thought you loved him, and for that reason I dreaded my own heart's inclination towards him; now I am assured you do not, I seek no longer to check my affections; for though I may never be his wife, there can be no error in my love, for I never shall marry another."

Dora could not reply. The brow contracted—the cheek slightly flushed as in scorn—and then she grew pale and calm. "It is useless speaking to you," she said, after a thoughtful pause; "not now, at least—to-morrow we will resume our conversation. I will leave you now, Minnie; I do not wish my mother to know I have been here—she would question me, and I wish this conversation unknown to her." She rose hastily, as if some newly-formed plan impelled her to do so. "Good-night, dear cousin, and pray, think of all I have said; 'tis fondly meant."

"I know that well, Dora," answered Minnie, tenderly embracing her. Dora seemed impatient to leave. Taking her taper in her hand, she hurried down the passage, and rapped gently at Aunt Dorcas's room-door; first assuring herself that Minnie's was closed. She remained for some time with Aunt Dorcas, and, briefly relating her unsuccessful suit with her cousin, implored Dorcas to act for her. Surely some motive more than deep interest in Minnie guided her, though possibly unknown to herself; for this anxiety and fear for consequences were far beyond the usual forethought of a young girl. Such, generally, see all couleur de rose where two love, especially if young and handsome: futurity, interest, etc., they leave to older hearts, to cause heart-ache and care. The results were various next day, of all these plottings and consultations. The first was, Lady Ripley, to her daughter's surprise, sent her word early in the morning, by her maid, to prepare for their departure for town. Truth to say, Lady Ripley was delighted to find a good excuse for leaving Gatestone, where she had promised to remain a month longer. She was anxious to return to town on Lord Randolph Gray's account, as we have seen; and she made poor Minnie's imprudence the excuse. In vain Lady Dora endeavoured to make her change her determination, urging the necessity of some one to watch over Minnie. She felt terrified, agitated, beyond expression, at the thought of leaving; but all her efforts to remain were fruitless. Lady Ripley would go; and she told Juvenal, that Minnie's misconduct obliged her to remove her innocent daughter from her influence, lest her name should become in any way compromised. This more than ever decided him on secluding Minnie in her room, to mark his disapprobation. And, as this conversation took place late the previous evening—in fact, while Dora was with Minnie—the latter was not a little overwhelmed with shame and indignation, when ordered next morning to "remain in her own room, until something should be decided about her." Sylvia was furious—all her jealousy of Lady Ripley broke forth in invectives against her intriguing daughter, as she termed Dora. Dora implored for Minnie; Dorcas argued the imprudence, not to say injustice, of so erroneous a step as thus degrading the girl in all eyes; it would make her lose all self-respect, and only engender recklessness. But Juvenal was like all fools—obstinate. Moreover, he was backed by Marmaduke Burton, himself too short-sighted to foresee the consequences which might ensue. He hoped by hypocritically expressing his regret in some manner, by letter or personally, as Juvenal promised he should see her, to win at least a kind feeling through gratitude. Narrow-minded persons reckon only naturally, to the extent of their powers of reasoning. Minnie read him as she would an open page, and despised him tenfold more, if possible, for his narrow policy. Dora, in consternation and regret, took leave of the weeping Minnie. Alas! those tears would soon be dried by the wrong course pursued with her, and only give birth to silent resolution and suspicion of all, even for awhile of her dearly loved aunt, Dorcas. Dora was gone; Sylvia in earnest consultation with Mrs. Gillett, both agreeing that the master of the house, and Minnie's guardian, to do as he willed with her—was an idiot; for had not Lady Dora acknowledged that she alone was in fault; and had they not both witnessed the lovers meeting? Poor Minnie had been selected by them as a go-between. It was dreadful; but Mrs. Gillett, with her usual caution, said but half what she really thought, and in an after scene with Juvenal, though she pleaded for Minnie's liberty, at the same time so impressed him with the idea of her condemnation of all but himself—and this without any great deceit on her part, for the last speaker always had most reason in Mrs. Gillett's mind—that he fearlessly gave her free permission to visit Minnie, how and when she pleased; indeed, the key of the rooms (for there was a small music one where she was in the habit of practising, adjoining her bedroom) was intrusted to the housekeeper's safe keeping. "I tell you, Mrs. Gillett," he said, "it will do her good—one excellent lesson like this will save the girl—she has grown very headstrong of late."

Poor, blind Juvenal; his excellent lesson was as a stepping-stone to many sorrows—a finger-post down a long dark lane hedged with care, like thorns! Dorcas, as usual, did the most sensible thing of any of them. She walked over quietly, and in a spirit of conciliation, to Farmer Weld's, where Tremenhere was staying, and, requesting an interview, was shown into the room where he sat, but not alone—to her great surprise Mr. Skaife was his companion. Tremenhere rose in surprise, and some slight confusion. Had the farmer himself been there, the entrance might have been accomplished with more difficulty; as it was, only a servant was in the outer hall (a sort of large, homely, perfect old English farm kitchen) as she entered, and, innocent of wrong, shewed her in to where the two sat. After the momentary movement of embarrassment, Tremenhere offered her a chair, and in his own quiet gentlemanly manner, expressed his pleasure, whatever the cause, at her visit. He knew she was Minnie's almost mother, and he regarded her accordingly. Skaife rose, and coming forward said, "You are doubtless surprised to meet me here, and especially before visiting Gatestone. But I returned late last night, and this morning called to see Mr. Tremenhere—whom I may call my friend, I believe—in an affair interesting to both of us."

"Do you mean Miss Dalzell?" exclaimed Dorcas in astonishment.

"Oh, no!" answered Skaife, looking equally amazed at this abrupt question—being, as he was, totally ignorant of the recent events; "I allude to that poor girl, Mary Burns, whom I have placed in safety from further insult, at the request of Mr. Tremenhere, as business prevented his leaving this neighbourhood himself."

"It is kindly and rightly done by both," said Dorcas, scarcely knowing what she should next say—then added, without farther consideration of how far it might be prudent to inform Tremenhere of all—"But I may be pardoned for regretting that Mr. Tremenhere should not have been occupied elsewhere, as the events of the past few days threaten more painful results, I fear, than he anticipated when engaging in them."

"Good heavens! what do you mean, madam?" he asked, starting up aghast. Skaife sat like one petrified; something painful was paralyzing his faculties; he could not speak at first. Tremenhere glanced at him, after the first exclamation had escaped him. "I beg pardon," he said, in agitation. "I should, perhaps, be an importunate witness. I will go," and he prepared to do so.

"No, stay; pray, remain, Mr. Skaife," cried Dorcas. "I am glad you are here: you may perhaps exert your influence as a clergyman, as well as a friend, with Mr. Tremenhere."

Women who have never loved overlook and ignore many penalties attached to such chains round the heart; they are like a felon's irons, resounding with every step we take, and galling somewhere, especially when but little hope is linked with them. Such was poor Skaife's case, and something now whispered him, that that little would soon be lost. Her next words confirmed this fear; for, neither of them answering her last speech, she continued hastily, as if resolved to utter all the worst at once, addressing herself to Miles—"You are perhaps not aware, Mr. Tremenhere, that your most imprudent—most unfortunate meetings of late, with Miss Dalzell, have been discovered, and reported to all, but first to her uncle and guardian—my brother."

"I am aware of that," he articulated through his set teeth.

Skaife felt cold at heart, and he felt, too, the blood deserting his cheek. For an instant a movement of indignation arose against Miles, as if he had deceived him; then the justice of the man triumphed, and bitter as his regret, his awakening regret, was—for he felt some painful revelation was about taking place—he exonerated the other from all wrong towards himself, ignorant as he was of his affection for Minnie, and, even if he had been acquainted with it, bound by no friendship or honour to him, to act otherwise than his inclinations dictated.

"All is known," continued Dorcas, in a sad tone; "and my heaviest grief is, that her uncle should have taken, I fear, so ill-advised a step as the one of coercion with Minnie."

"Coercion!" exclaimed both Miles and Skaife in a breath.

"Yes; he has determined upon keeping her confined to her room, until you, Mr. Tremenhere, shall have quitted the neighbourhood, as the only means of separating you; but I fear he has done a rash thing with a girl of Minnie's high spirit."

Tremenhere rose hastily from his seat, and grasped the arm of his chair, as if to subdue his feelings; he only ejaculated "Oh!" but there were volumes of thought in that one word, and the resolute compression of his stern lip, as he half-smiled. Dorcas was looking thoughtfully on the ground. Skaife's eyes were fixed upon Tremenhere's face; he read his fate there, if her affection equalled his, in intensity and firmness. Tremenhere caught his eye, and, smiling in friendly confidence, as seeming to say, "You shall know all," dropped silently into his chair.

"I have come," said Dorcas, more composedly, "to ask, to implore you, Mr. Tremenhere, by the friendship which no unfortunate circumstance has banished from my thoughts—to leave this place, and forget any foolish words which may have passed between you and Minnie. Believe me, all pursuit will be vain—her uncle never will consent."

Skaife looked anxiously for the reply. Tremenhere rose impetuously:—"Madam," he cried, "in what light am I to regard this visit, with which you have honoured me?—as a friendly one, or as one dictated by Mr. Formby?"

"I come at my own heart's dictating," she answered meekly, "to one whom I liked, even though a wayward, impetuous boy—to one whom I sincerely pity; but whom, nevertheless, I cannot countenance as a suitor to my niece."

"As all these I gladly welcome you, except when bearing the last prohibition," Tremenhere replied, as he took her hand gently, and pressed his lip upon it with deep respect. "And, as Miss Dalzell's much-loved aunt, I reverence you, dear madam; nevertheless, in all candour, I must not deceive you. If Miss Dalzell love me, as I now believe her to do, not all the uncles or guardians in the world, could keep her so carefully but that my love and perseverance should reach, to confirm her in her affection, by the assurance of mine, unalterably hers!"

"Unless I am in great error," said Skaife, after a moment's intense thought, "the acquaintance between yourself and Miss Dalzell is of very recent date?"

"It cannot be of many weeks," answered Dorcas, clinging to the hope that Skaife's words implied, of its being little matured.

"What signifies date in love?" cried Tremenhere. "The heart rejects all such. The brightest flowers are those blushing to light in half an hour's sunshine!"

"And they fade as soon!" ejaculated Dorcas. "Oh, pray, Mr. Tremenhere! relinquish this mad thought; or leave here for awhile: let time decide upon the durability of your affections."

"And leave her," he cried, with a scornful laugh, "to the tender mercies of a guardian, who, for so slight a seeming fault as half an hour passed in an old ruin, with one she knew from childhood, can dare to use violence towards her? Oh, no! Had you, dear madam, unadvisedly done so, I would plead to your good sense and justice; but with men I war as a man should. What I may do, I know not; but whilst Miss Dalzell is confined on my account, and unjustly treated, I am bound by honour, as well as love, to stay and defend her."

"Then you knew one another long since?" said Skaife, sadly. With this admission from Miles, he saw every hope fade for himself.

"Oh, yes!" answered the other, and the voice grew gentle with the thought of that fair child; "when yet she was but a baby girl—a fair, flaxen-haired little thing; and, as we talked of those days together, year after year like melting icebergs faded away, and we stood side by side again in confidence and affection, with the sun shining upon us!"

Skaife and Dorcas both simultaneously looked at each other; and the looks said, "All is over—'tis vain wrestling with fate!"

"Besides," continued Miles, as if reading their thoughts, "there is a fate in all things. Our meeting has been one; it was so pre-ordained."

"Do not let that urge you," said Skaife, in forlorn hope of influencing him. "All things are not ordained at our birth; we may turn many evils aside, though placed in our path, by decision; they are as temptations and stumbling-blocks—rush on heedlessly, and they overthrow us—avoid them, they will not follow, but, like daunted cowards, shrink back! This temptation may be to lure you from a noble thought!"

"By heavens! you do well to remind me of that; I had wellnigh overlooked it!" exclaimed Miles, standing up in all the majesty of his proud beauty. "This is a double incentive to win Miss Dalzell, to boldly stand on the ground her generosity has awarded me; in winning her, I shall struggle with redoubled energy to prove myself what I know I am! Thank you, Skaife—thank you; and you, dear madam, pray bear in mind, that whatever my acts may be, they shall be dictated in all true affection towards your niece, so that you, the generous, Christian woman towards myself, may approve me."

"'Tis vain urging you more, Mr. Tremenhere," she said, rising; "I can but now appeal to my niece's affection for me, and duty towards herself." She curtsied, and was turning away.

"Not thus," he cried, taking her hand. "Let the man be boy again, and take the hand in friendship once never refused him; think that all which may be done, will be done for Miss Dalzell's happiness. I do assure you I have never told her I loved her, nor has she confessed her's; but I am well-assured she has read mine, though my hope may be too presumptuous. Let this comfort you, dear madam—Miss Dalzell holds the decision in her hands, it is not in mine!"

A faint hope rushed to Dorcas's heart. Skaife had none. He looked upon Miles, and felt she must love so noble-minded a man, whose soul sat upon his brow, to record its worth in open day.

The men shook hands, Skaife promising to return soon; and, escorted by him, Dorcas quitted the farm-house, leaving Tremenhere a prey to many wild thoughts and schemes.

This day, after a lengthened interview with Juvenal, to confirm him in his severity and watchfulness, Marmaduke Burton quitted the manor-house. Somehow he durst not remain after having told all to Juvenal. He remembered Miles's threats, and so he quitted for awhile, leaving Dalby to watch and report, as Juvenal also had promised to do; and, above all, keep the refractory Minnie under lock and key!