“Because you have been so kind and gentle with me, and I am little used to either; and, then, you have never censured me, as I had every reason to believe you would do, for being the cause of you nearly losing your life. If you had let me drown, when it was in your power to do so, it would have been serving me exactly right, you know.” He looked down into the childish face, with strange emotions throbbing in his breast. Of all people the world held, not one of them had ever told him, up to the present hour, that they liked him, or cared to see him happy. On the contrary, the great, cruel world had hustled him about sharply, and every one had been only too eager to trample him down, utterly regardless of his feelings, whether he was doomed to misery or not. Long and earnestly he debated with himself as to whether he should tell her that he was John Dinsmore, instead of Mr. Moore, as she thought him, the hated being whom the elder Dinsmore had stipulated in that ridiculous will that she should wed, or lose a princely fortune. But at last he decided that it would not be amiss to sound her in regard to her feelings first, before disclosing his identity to her. But ere he could proceed to do this, fate, in the shape of Lucy Caldwell, the farmer’s daughter, intervened. She was hastening toward him, with a paper in her hand. From the house she had seen him grasp and hold Jess’ little hand, and, fearful that he was growing overfond of her pretty visitor, joined them hurriedly, to prevent the attempt at sentimentalism, telling herself that Jess should never have the opportunity of being alone with Mr. Moore again if she could prevent it, and she would certainly be ingenious enough to head off any _tête-à-têtes_, with her mother’s aid. Down the path came Lucy, with a haste unusual to her, and at her approach the gentleman dropped Jess’ hand, not altogether displeased at the interruption which had caused the words he was about to utter to remain unsaid for the present. “Your New York papers, which you are always so anxious about, have come, and here they are, Mr. Moore,” she said, handing them to him, the heightened color flaming up into her face as he thanked her, expressing the regret that she should put herself to so much trouble as to bring them out to him. “There is a letter for you inside the house, Jess,” she said, turning to his companion. “Uncle Abbot wrote to papa from New Orleans, and a Mrs. Bryson--I think he said she was the housekeeper at Blackheath Hall--incloses one for you, which, he wrote, was of the greatest importance, and must be delivered to you at once.” Reluctantly, Jess followed Lucy to the farmhouse. She had little curiosity to read Mrs. Bryson’s letter. She would rather have remained outside in the golden sunshine talking to and worshiping her hero under the great oak trees. Meanwhile, the hero in question was following the forms of the two girls with a troubled glance.