“Listening is always serious work,” she answered. He took her hand within his; she felt it was the hand of age; the bones and sinews pressed on her soft palm with an earnest pressure. “Isabel Montford—could you love an old man?” She raised her eyes to his, and wondered at the light which filled them:— “Yes,” she answered, “I could love an old man dearly; I could confide to him the dearest secret of my heart.” “And your heart, your heart itself? Such things have been, sweet Isabel.” His hand was _very_ hard, but she did not withdraw hers. “No, not _that_, because—because I have not my heart to give.” She spoke rapidly, and with emotion. “I have it not to give, and I have so longed to tell you my secret! You have such influence with my aunt, you have been so affectionate, so like a father to me, that if you would only intercede with _her_, for HIM and me, I know she could not refuse. I have often——often thought of entreating this, and now it was so kind of you to ask, if I could love an old man, giving me the opportunity of showing that I do, by confiding in you, and asking your intercession.” The room became misty to the General’s eyes, and the rattle of a battle-field sounded in his ears, and beat upon his heart. “And pray, Miss Montford,” he said, after a pause, “who may _him_ be?” “Ah, _you_ do not know him!—my aunt forbade the continuance of our acquaintance the day before I had the happiness to meet you. It was most fortunate I wooed you to call upon her, thinking—” (she looked up at his fine face, whose very wrinkles were aristocratic, and smiled her most bewitching smile) “thinking the presence of the only man she ever loved would soften her, and hoping that I should one day be privileged to address you as my friend, my uncle!” And she kissed his hand.—It really was hard to bear. “I have heard her say,” persisted the young lady, “that when prompted by evil counsel, she refused you, she loved you, and since your return she only lives in your presence.” The General wondered if this was true, and thought he would not give the young beauty a triumph. He was recovering his self-possession. “I remembered your admiration of _passing belles_, and felt how kindly you tolerated me, _for my aunt’s sake_; and surely you will aid me in a matter upon which my happiness, and the happiness of that poor dear fellow depends?” She bent her beautiful eyes on the ground. “And who is the poor dear fellow?” inquired the General, in a singularly husky voice. “Henry Mandeville,” half-whispered Isabel. “Oh, is it not a beautiful name? the initials on those lovely handkerchiefs you gave me will still do; I shall still be I. M.” “A son of old Admiral Mandeville’s?” “The _youngest_ son,” she sighed, “that is my aunt’s objection; were he the _eldest_, she would have been too happy. Oh, sir, he is such a fine fellow—such a hero!—lost a leg at Cabool, and received I don’t know how many stabs from those horrid Affgauns.”