"No, of course not. Our Gertrude thought a deal of another fellow; but the mater's word is law, you see, and it might have come off. Good heavens! she will be mad." "Your sister?" "Not she--the mother. Well, I'm not going to stand it. My dear fellow, we are being cut out." "Nonsense, my dear boy; those two are old enough to be their grandfathers." "But they are rich--at least, Elbraham is rolling in wealth." "Then Lord Henry was getting the Jew to do a bill." "You seem as if nothing would move you, Glen; I tell you I am sure they have been to propose to those girls." "And if they had, what then?" "I should go mad." "Nonsense! you'd go and fall in love with someone else." "I? with another!" cried the little fellow tragically. "I tell you I never knew what it was to love till now I can't bear it, Glen; pray get up, and come and see." "Nonsense, man, nonsense! We couldn't call. Wait till to-morrow, and we shall meet them in the grounds." "You'll drive me mad with your coolness. You can't care for her. Oh, Glen, 'pon my soul, it's too bad! I loved Clotilde almost to distraction, but seeing how you seemed to be taken with her, I gave her up to the man I looked upon more as brother than friend, and devoted myself to Marie. If I had known, though, I should have taken up very different ground." Glen had felt troubled at his little companion's remarks, and he had begun to think seriously of the possibility of what he had announced being true; but the tragic manner in which he had spoken of the transfer of his affections in obedience to his friendship was more than Glen could bear, and he burst out into such a hearty fit of laughter that little Richard faced round, and marched pompously and indignantly out of the room. No sooner had he gone than Glen began to think, and very seriously now. Somehow he seemed to have been stirred by Clotilde from the depths of his ordinary calm life; he did not know that he loved her, but the thought of her dark, passionate eyes had such an effect upon him that he got up and began to pace the room. Never had woman so moved him from his apathy before; and the more he thought of her simplicity and daring combined, the more he told himself that this woman was his fate. It was plain enough to him, with his knowledge of the world, that he was the first who had ever intruded upon her maiden repose. He knew that she had led an almost conventual life, and that her young heart seemed, as it were, to leap to meet him, so that what would have appeared brazen effrontery in a girl of several seasons, was in her but the natural act of her newly-awakened love. "I can't help it," he exclaimed at last; "she is not the sort of girl that I thought I should have chosen to call wife; but she is all that is innocent and passionate, and, well, I feel sure she loves me, and if she does--" He stopped short for a few moments, thinking: