That gentleman seemed to bring in with him a different atmosphere from that which had prevailed hitherto. Although his bow was distant to Haldane when introduced, his manner had been the perfection of politeness to the others. For some reason, however, there had been a sudden restraint and chill. Possibly they had but unconsciously obeyed the strong will of Mr. Beaumont, who wished their departure. He was almost as resolute in having his own way as Mr. Arnot himself. Not that he was ever rude to any one in any circumstances, but he could politely freeze objectionable persons out of a room as effectually as if he took them by the shoulders and walked them out. There was so much in his surroundings and antecedents to sustain his quiet assumption, that the world was learning to say, "By your leave," on all occasions. Haldane was not long in reaching a conclusion as he sat over a dying fire in his humble quarters at the hermitage. If he saw much of Laura Romeyn he would love her of necessity by every law of his being. Assuring himself of the hopelessness of his affection would make no difference to one of his temperament. He was not one who could coolly say to his ardent and impetuous nature, "Thus far, and no farther." There was something in her every tone, word, and movement which touched chords within his heart that vibrated pleasurably or painfully. This power cannot be explained. It was not passion. Were Laura far more beautiful, something in her manner or character might speedily have broken the spell by which she unconsciously held her captive. His emotion in no respect resembled the strong yet restful affection that he entertained for Mrs. Arnot. Was it love? Why should he love one who would not love in return, and who, both in the world's and his own estimation, was infinitely beyond his reach? However much his reason might condemn his feelings, however much he might regret the fact, his heart trembled at her presence, and, by some instinct of its own, acknowledged its mistress. He was compelled to admit to himself that he loved her already, and that his boyhood's passion had only changed as he had changed, and had become the strong and abiding sentiment of the man. She only could have broken the power by becoming commonplace, by losing the peculiar charm which she had for him from the first. But now he could not choose; he had met his fate. One thing, however, he could do, and that he resolved upon before he closed his eyes in sleep in the faint dawning of the following day. He would not flutter as a poor moth where he could not be received as an accepted lover.