Forsyth is leaning over her chair, anxiously waiting for her answer. Mary is at a loss what to do, but cannot say, No. Again Mrs. James is occupied with the flowers. “This is an era with me, Miss Melville,” Forsyth whispered in Mary’s ear; “this day twelve months I first saw you.” Mary’s fingers still hold the music, but the sheets tremble in her hands. “Is it, indeed?” she says. “Oh, yes! I remember, it was at Elizabeth’s annual party! It is an era to us all, also. We too have many recollections connected with the New Year, but they are all sorrowful.” “Not mine,” returned Forsyth. “Do you know, Miss Melville, I was much struck then by your resemblance to a young man I once knew in Edinburgh, a very fine gentleman-like lad of your own name too. I often wonder what has become of him. I had some hand in inducing him to change some ridiculously rigid opinions of his; when a fit of superstitious fear came over him, and I believe his regard for me changed to a perfect hatred.” Here Mr. Forsyth looked over to Mrs. James, as much as to say, it was full time for her to go away. The light is swimming in Mary’s eyes, everything before her has become dim and indistinct; and she trembles, not as she trembled a moment since, with agitated pleasure--it is horror, dread, fear that now shakes her slender frame, and looks out from her dim and vacant eyes. There is no trace now of the blush which wavered but a little ago so gracefully upon her cheek, it is pale as death, as she sinks back into her chair. Forsyth and Elizabeth both rushed to her side. What is, what can be, the matter? “Nothing, nothing, I shall be better immediately,” she said, shuddering as she raised herself up again, and drew away the hand which Forsyth had taken; “I am better now, much better.” A look of intelligence and mutual congratulation passed between her companions. Poor thing, she is agitated, and out of sorts with the novelty of her position; but what matters that, they are quite sure of Mary now, and Mrs. James glides quietly out of the room. As soon as she has gone, and they are left alone together, Forsyth with all the eloquence of look and tone and gesture he can command, pours his suit into Mary’s ear. How entirely will he not be devoted to her, to her happiness. How perfectly does she reign in his affections; but it seems, unless from a shiver, which thrills through her frame from time to time, that he speaks to a statue, alike incapable of moving from that charmed place, or of articulating anything in answer to his petition. Forsyth becomes alarmed, and entreats, beseeches her to speak to him, to look at him only, to return the pressure of his hand, if nothing more definite is to be said or done; and suddenly Mary does look up, pale and troubled though her countenance be, into his face, and speaks firmly:--