“But it was possible,” said Arthur, “for I did lose my way, and I hope you will pardon my having kept breakfast waiting so long, I do not deserve such kindness.” “Oh, as to that,” said Grace Gordon, “there is no one injured but yourself, for I breakfasted an hour ago!” Arthur was on the point of speaking of the troop of young people that he met coming out of the gate, but he stopped, for this was infringing on the rules—rules which he never forgot one instant. Miss Gordon seeing him about to speak, waited for a moment, and then proceeded to pour out his tea. “And you really lost your way, Mr. Hazarelle, it is no wonder when you recollect how many windings and turnings there are. If I were to follow the cedar-hedge, I should undoubtedly be puzzled, for that doubles and winds about in every direction. Did you not meet any one in your walk?” “Yes, several; I blundered along till I reached a gate,—” “Indeed!” said Miss Gordon, “and was the gate open?” “No, the gate was opened when I reached it, I saw one of the domestics, or rather he saw me, and it was from him I learned that the breakfast was waiting. Miss Gordon,—I never was placed in so awkward a position in my life. I have submitted to conditions, which, to one of my nature, are very painful and mortifying,—for you must yourself despise me for submitting to them.” “You have acted honorably, Mr. Hazarelle,” said she, with much feeling, “and an honorable man must always be respected. You may be assured that I deeply feel for the mortification and privations you endure, and would lessen them if I could. One day or other—very soon perhaps—you will learn why you have been thus bound down to rules which must at least appear strange, if not ridiculous. You will find us grateful for the service you have rendered me, and I hope to be under obligations to you for several months to come.” “Grateful!—Miss Gordon,—it is for me to speak of gratitude, for there has been as much happiness crowded in the few months of my residence here as would spread over the whole of an ordinary life. I shall leave my heart, and all that life is worth in this beautiful retreat, and that I may not be utterly miserable by incurring your hate, it is better for me to go as soon as possible.” “Oh! you must not talk of leaving us yet,” said she, pretending not to understand him, “for how shall I get on with the German? I am not so well grounded in the language, as that I can study by myself.” “You can improve without assistance, I assure you, and you will have opportunities this winter of meeting with many who speak the language. As to me, though I shall be near you when you are in the city, yet the difference in our prospects will prevent our meeting,—I shall be nothing there but a humble clerk; or perhaps, a humble teacher.” Tears came in the young lady’s eyes, but she did not dare to trust her voice, and Arthur proceeded.