No, she did not love him--she could not love him: it was folly--all a dream from which she was awaking; for she knew the end--she knew her days at the Elms must be but few--that, like a discarded servant, she must go: whither she knew not, only that it must be far away--somewhere to dream no more, neither to be persecuted for what she could not help. No; she did not love him, and he would soon forget her. It could be but a passing fancy. But she esteemed him--she must own to a deep feeling of esteem for one of so noble, frank, and generous a nature. Had he not always been kind and gentle and sympathising--displaying his liking for her with a gentlemanly respect that had won upon her more and more? Yes, she esteemed him too well, she was too grateful, to injure him ever so slightly; and her greatest act of kindness would be to hurry away. The fragrance from the poor crushed flower still rose, breathing, as it were, such love and sweetness; recalling, too, the words with which it was given so vividly, that, betrayed beyond her strength to control the act, for one brief instant Ella's lips were pressed softly, lovingly, upon the flower--petals kissing petals--the bright bee-stung and ruddy touching the pale and crushed; and then, firmly and slowly, though each act seemed to send a pang through her throbbing heart, Ella plucked the rose in pieces, telling herself that she was tearing forth the mad passion as she went on showering down the creamy leaflets, raining upon them her tears the while, till the bare stalk alone remained in her hands--her cruel hands; for had she not been tearing and rending her own poor breast as every petal was plucked from its hold? For what availed the deceit? The time had been short--they had met but seldom: but what of that? The secret would burst forth, would assert itself; and she knew that she loved him dearly--loved him so that she would give her life for his sake; and that to have been his slave--to have been but near him--to listen to his voice--to see his broad white forehead, his sun-tinged cheeks, and clustering brown hair; not to be called his, but only to be near him--would be life to her; while to go far--far--far away, where she might never see him more, would be, as it were, tottering even into her grave. No; there was no one looking: it was close upon midnight, but she glanced guiltily round, as with burning cheeks she sank upon her knees, whispering to that wild beating heart that it could not be wrong. And then she began to slowly gather those petals, taking them up softly one by one, to treasure somewhere--to gaze upon, perhaps, sometimes in secret; for was it not his gift that she had cast down as if it had been naught? She might surely treasure them up to keep in remembrance of what might have been, had hers been a happier lot.