"But the loss of yours is only in your own fancy, Dacre," she answered. "Who believes this charge, that Simeon of Roydon dares to hint, but not to avow? Whom has it affected? In whom do you see a change? Surely not in my father; surely not in me." "No, assuredly, Isabel," he said, after thinking for a while; "but as yet I have had no occasion to make the trial. Hearken, and I will put a case. Suppose, dear Isabel, that I were to love; suppose the lady that I loved had heard this tale; suppose that she had loved me well before, and at her knee I were now to crave the blessing of her hand; would not a doubt, would not a hesitation cross her mind? Would she not ask herself--" "Oh, no!" cried Isabel; but Dacre went on, not suffering her to conclude. "You put it not fully to your own heart, dear Isabel," he said. "Suppose you were that lady--suppose that all Harry Dacre's hopes and happiness for life were staked on your reply; suppose that to you, who have so often consoled him in affliction, calmed him in anger, soothed him in anxiety, he were to say, 'Isabel, will you be my comforter through life, the star of my existence, the recompence for all I have suffered?' would not one thought--" Isabel trembled violently, and her cheek turned ashy pale. "It is enough," said Dacre, with a quivering lip; "I am answered! That memory could never be banished from your heart. It is enough!" "Oh, no, no!" cried Isabel; but, as will almost always happen when a word may make all clear, an interruption came; before she could go on, good old Sir Philip Beauchamp was seen upon the steps of the house, waving them to come back, with a loud "Halloo!" They both turned, and walked towards the hall in silence. Isabel would fain have spoken, but agitation overpowered her. She wished that Dacre, by a single word, would give her an opportunity of reply; but his over-sensitive heart was convinced of her feelings--reading them all wrong; and he would not force her to speak what he thought must be painful for her to utter, and for him to hear. Twice she made up her mind to explain, but twice her heart failed her at the moment of execution; and it was not till they were within a few steps of the place where her father stood, that she could say, in a low voice, "You are mistaken, Harry; indeed you are mistaken!" He shook his head with a bitter smile, and walked on in silence. CHAPTER X. THE MINSTREL'S GIRL. At the hour appointed by the King, Richard of Woodville arrived at the palace, and was at once introduced to Henry's presence. The monarch was now quite alone, and seemed in a more cheerful, a less meditative mood, than the day before. "Well, Richard," he said, "how sped you last night? you found room in hall, and a place at board, I trust?"