“Thank you—thank you, Frederick. That is spoken like my own son,” was Mr. Gordon’s answer, as he cordially shook his hand. “I have no fears that you will not gratify me, if you will but yield to the suggestions of your own good sense.” Frederick Gordon slept not that night. We will not attempt to follow the workings of his mind. Suffice it to say, that the next morning, with a pale cheek, but with a voice that did not falter, he signified to his father his readiness to adopt the plan proposed by him the previous evening. “Then you must go at once, this very day,” said Mr. Gordon; “there must be no time for foolish regrets and sentimental nonsense. The ‘Virginia’ sails for Europe upon the 20th of next month, and this—yes, this is the 17th. You have no time to lose—you must start for New York this evening, and you will then hardly have time to make the necessary preparations there.” And he hurried away to expedite his son’s departure. CHAPTER IV. We must now return to sweet Lily Grey, whom we left so unceremoniously at Mr. Mason’s gate, after her adventure in the woods with Frederick Gordon. When she entered the house, she did not, as usual, repair immediately to the common parlor or sitting-room as it was called, but ascending the stairs she sought her own chamber. Hastily throwing off her bonnet, she approached the small mirror, and slowly removing the handkerchief which was fastened around her temples, endeavored to ascertain the extent of the injury she had received. She found that it was nothing but a tolerably deep incision, made, apparently, by a very sharp stone. The bleeding had ceased, and she soon succeeded in closing the wound by the help of some narrow strips of plaster. She then seated herself by the low window, and tried to recall the events of the day. Dear Lily Grey! what a fount of deep, pure, exquisite, yet strange happiness had welled up in her young heart since she went forth that summer afternoon upon her errand of mercy to old Mrs. Forster’s cottage! Yet bright tear-drops were continually sparkling in her beautiful eyes, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely smooth the shining curls that fell without restraint upon her shoulders. For a long time she sat there by the window; darkness came on, but she heeded it not; there was no darkness of the spirit there, and her heart was illumined in its innermost recesses by light from within, light that depended not upon outward objects—light clearer than that of the sun at noonday.