"Tastes differ," I replied, oddly. "Her beauty is not according to my idea." His kindly face cleared. "That is right; she is of the siren order; some people would find her irresistible. Now, pardon me if I say one word. I have known the lady for five years, and know nothing against her, still mistrust her without knowing why. You are young, new to the world; new, perhaps, to the influence of great womanly beauty; keep your heart safe. Do not let Mademoiselle d'Aubergne take it from you." "There is no fear," I replied, with a light laugh. "Some day, Sir John, I will tell you where my heart has found its home." "I am glad you know how to take a hint given in all kindness," he said, cordially. "As my old friend's heir and representative, my heart warms to you." I left Harden Manor a changed man. The very earth around seemed changed to me; the sky wore a deeper blue; the grass a fairer green; there was new music in the birds' songs and in the whisper of the wind, new hope in my own heart, new beauty all around me. That was the beginning of the glamour posts call frenzy, men call love. Mademoiselle was out on the lawn as I rode up to the door. She came to meet me, her glittering eyes on my face. "Have you enjoyed your visit?" was the first question she asked. "More than I ever enjoyed anything in my life. You did not tell me what a beautiful neighbor I had at Harden Manor." "I never thought of it," she replied, carelessly. "Agatha Thesiger is only a school-girl." "Then school-girls are very different from what I thought them," was my reply, and mademoiselle turned away with a strange smile. CHAPTER VI. No matter what I did, that face was always before me. If I read it looked up at me with sweet, serene eyes from the pages of my book. It rose between me and the blue heavens. I saw it in every flower. It haunted me until I could have cried out for respite from the pleasure that was yet half pain. Poets sing of the joy and the rapture of love. Who knows its pain? For pain it surely is when no sleep comes near you, and the every-day duties of life only weary you, and your sole desire is to dream over looks and words you cannot forget. It is surely pain when a thousand doubts assail you, when you weigh yourself in the balance and find yourself wanting. A hundred times each day I found myself wondering whether Sir John would think me good enough for his daughter. She was not his heiress, I knew, for he had a son at college, but she was lovely, high-born, accomplished, and my one great puzzle was whether he would think me a good match for her. Other doubts came to madden me. Perhaps she was already engaged. She had doubtless a number of admirers. Who was I that I should dare to hope for her favor?