"She is removed from my world--she can be nothing to me now," was the first stern whisper of his heart, which was modified after two or three interviews into--"She can only be a dear friend and sister. I must never think of her in any other light." And, devoted as he had been to her through the winter, no word, no look had told of love less calm or more exacting than this. But there came a time when the quick blush on Lilian's cheek at his approach, the tremor of her little hand as he clasped it, told that she shared his feeling, without his power of self-control. Then came the hour of trial to Michael Grahame's nature. Self-immolation were easy in comparison with the infliction of one pang on her. And wherefore should either suffer? Was it not a false sentiment that denied to her the right to decide for herself, between those shows and fashions which the world most prizes, and the indulgence of the purest and sweetest affections of our nature? Was he not in truth sacrificing her happiness to his own pride? It was a question which he dared not answer for himself, and he applied to his father, in whose high principles and clear judgment he placed implicit confidence. Mr. Grahame was too shrewd, and in this case too interested an observer to be unprepared for his son's avowal of his past feelings and present perplexities. "You are right, my son," he replied to his appeal; "It is Lilian's right to decide for herself on that which will constitute her own happiness." "Then I may speak to her--I may tell her--" "All you desire that she should know," said Mr. Grahame, gently, "when Lilian has had an opportunity of knowing what she must sacrifice in accepting you." "True--true--I will ask no promise from her--nay--I will accept none--I will only assure her that should the world fail to fill her heart, the truest and most devoted love awaits her here." "And in listening to that assurance, without rebuking it, a delicate woman would feel that she had pledged herself." Michael Grahame's brow contracted, and his voice faltered slightly as, after a moment's thoughtful pause, he asked, "What then would you have me do?" "Nothing at present--Lilian will soon leave us, and at Mr. Trevanion's she will see quite another kind of life--a life which, with her fortune and their friendship, may be hers, but which she must give up should she become the wife of a mechanic and the daughter-in-law of a gardener. Let her see this life, my boy, and then let her choose between you and it." "And how can I hope that she will continue to regard me with kindness if I suffer her to depart without any expression of interest in her?" "Any expression of interest! I do not wish you to be colder to her than you have hitherto been, and I am much mistaken if Lilian would exchange your _brotherly_ affection for all the gewgaws in life."