He was light-hearted, animated, had no inconsiderable amount of passionate eloquence, and was, in short, a very dangerous man to hover about a thoughtless and inexperienced girl. The Honourable Miss Ethalwood inherited much of her father’s pride, but that was not much protection when her heart was touched. In a very short time she became infatuated with the handsome young Italian. To make use of a common phrase, she was over head and heels in love, or, as Mr. Artemus Ward would say, “I cannot tell you how _muchly_ she loved him.” Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Lord Ethalwood had not the faintest notion of the coming storm, and even if a suspicion had crossed his mind he would have dismissed it, for it would have seemed as probable to him that his daughter would fall in love with one of his grooms as with her music-master. He returned to Broxbridge Hall, and demonstrated all his old fondness for his daughter, and did not observe at this time that her manner was at times constrained. The professor’s visits were now few and far between, but the love between the two grew stronger――the Italian grew bolder――he asked his fair pupil to meet him at an appointed spot in the neighbourhood. She foolishly consented, and on one occasion when her ardent admirer told her in passionate accents how dearly he loved her she owned that the feeling was reciprocal. It is not easy to determine whether it was love or ambition that prompted the Italian to make the declaration――it might be both. It was, however, a base betrayal of trust and a cruel fraud――a most unpardonable deception, a most dishonourable deed. They plighted their troth. The professor asked the young lady to broach the question to her father. She drew back a pace or two, and exclaimed―― “Mention it to my father! You must be mad to make such a proposition.” “He would never consent?” “Consent! He would die first. Oh, you do not know him.” The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and looked on the ground in a desponding manner. The lovers parted. A day or two after this the Italian went to Broxbridge Hall for the purpose of giving his usual lesson. He met his lordship in the passage, who bowed stiffly and passed on. “Can he suspect anything?” murmured the professor, “or is it the natural pride which all the English aristocracy have, more or less? Ah, she’s right enough! It will never do to mention the subject to him. Ha, ha, we must elope!” He told his pupil of the meeting, and informed her also that her parent was stiff and haughty in his manner. “That is not unusual with him,” she answered. “It’s his way. Do not take any notice of it.” “Does he suspect aught?” “No. Oh, dear no!” While this love-making had been going on there was one in the house who had her own private reasons for suspecting something was amiss――this was the housekeeper in the establishment.