There was something ominous, something compassionate, in the look which Mrs. Poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover. Lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly-fine lady--such as I judged Lady Haughton to be--surrounded by young gentlemen, as well as young ladies, by admirers, no doubt, of a higher rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet known! I closed my eyes, and with strong effort suppressed a groan. “My dear Annie, let me satisfy myself that Dr. Fenwick really does consent to this journey. He will say to me what he may not to you. Pardon me, then, if I take him aside for a few minutes. Let me find you here again under this cedar-tree.” Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for Mrs. Ashleigh’s answer, Mrs. Poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk that belted the lawn; and when we were out of Mrs. Ashleigh’s sight and hearing, said,-- “From what you have now seen of Lilian Ashleigh, do you still desire to gain her as your wife?” “Still? Oh, with an intensity proportioned to the fear with which I now dread that she is about to pass away from my eyes--from my life!” “Does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart? Reflect before you answer.” “Such selfish judgment as I had before I knew her would not confirm but oppose it. The nobler judgment that now expands all my reasonings, approves and seconds my heart. No, no; do not smile so sarcastically. This is not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion. Let me explain myself if I can. I concede to you that Lilian’s character is undeveloped; I concede to you, that amidst the childlike freshness and innocence of her nature, there is at times a strangeness, a mystery, which I have not yet traced to its cause. But I am certain that the intellect is organically as sound as the heart, and that intellect and heart will ultimately--if under happy auspices--blend in that felicitous union which constitutes the perfection of woman. But it is because she does, and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted, thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that my judgment sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for her is best for me. And who would watch over her as I should?” “You have never yet spoken to Lilian as lovers speak?” “Oh, no, indeed.” “And, nevertheless, you believe that your affection would not be unreturned?” “I thought so once; I doubt now,--yet, in doubting, hope. But why do you alarm me with these questions? You, too, forebode that in this visit I may lose her forever?” “If you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her answer may dispel your fear.” “What! now, already, when she has scarcely known me a month. Might I not risk all if too premature?”