'Lovers--and in this new view of the situation you are no doubt influenced by Sir Redmond Sleath?' 'Perhaps,' replied Ellinor, doggedly, as she watched the hands of the clock. 'If he means honourably--and he dare not mean otherwise--you are perhaps worldly-wise. But poor Robert!' The exclamation, though uttered low, found an echo in the heart of Ellinor. Yet she was inexorably intent on keeping her invited appointment, of which Mary had not, of course, the least suspicion. 'I do not like Sir Redmond,' said Mary, with a tone of decision. 'Why?' asked Ellinor, changing colour. 'He never looks me straight in the face, and at times, with all his insouciance, he can do nothing but tug out his moustache, as if to show off his white, useless hands. He certainly has hung about you, Ellinor, more than I--considering our friendless and lonely position--have quite relished.' 'Not perhaps more than Captain Colville has hung about you, Mary,' retorted Ellinor, softly; 'and I may as well admit that Sir Redmond always speaks to me of his love, and has asked me to love him in return.' 'He has done this?' exclaimed Mary, growing pale. 'Yes,' replied Ellinor, kissing her sister, perhaps to hide her own face. 'Has he asked you to be his wife?' The look of unrest--sorrowful unrest--she had detected more than once in Ellinor's face crept over it now. The latter cast her sweet eyes down and made no reply, as in this important matter she was as yet tongue-tied. 'Be wary--be wary, pet Ellinor, for it has been truly said that common-sense and honesty bear so small a proportion to folly and knavery that human life at least is but a paltry province.' 'Is this out of one of Dr. Wodrow's sermons?' asked Ellinor, with some annoyance. 'Surely I am the best judge of what is for my own happiness.' 'Perhaps; but remember the proverb,' said Mary, thinking of the absent Colville and fading hopes. 'Happiness is like an echo which answers to the call, but does not come.' 'What an old croaker it is!' said Ellinor, as she laughingly kissed her sister again and slipped away from her. She re-read Sir Redmond Sleath's letter--the first love-letter she had ever received, if we except the sorrowful and upbraiding epistle from Robert Wodrow. It seemed orthodox enough, as it began 'My darling,' but had no genuine signature, and there was very little devotion expressed in it, and was brief and curt.