And when Frederick Gordon became aware of this, a shadow deeper and darker than any that he had ever before known, rested upon his pathway. He had returned from Europe fully determined to woo and win her for the sake of her wealth. Love, or any congeniality of feeling that might exist between them was but a secondary consideration. When he saw her that night in the ball-room, more beautiful almost than his wildest dream of beauty, emphatically “the star of the goodly companie;” when he learned that the proudest in the land had sued humbly yet vainly for her favor, pride came to the aid of his mercenary motives, and he resolved to bear off triumphantly the prize for which so many were contending. But when he was thrown almost daily into her presence the atmosphere of purity and goodness which surrounded her, made him feel much as we may suppose a fallen spirit might feel in the presence of an angel of light. He could not meet the glance of her clear eyes, that glance so holy, so unworldly, without a pang of remorse for the unworthy incentives that had first led him to seek her. And he learned to love her deeply—devotedly. His heart thrilled at the sound of her voice, the lightest echo of her footsteps, the mere touch of her fair hand. He would have taken her to his bosom, and called her his own sweet wife, with no other dowry than the love of her pure, trusting heart. Yes, at last even Frederick Gordon loved _disinterestedly_. Alas, poor Lily Grey! While thy false lover was thus bowing at the shrine of another, did thy image never haunt him? Did no thought of thee ever awaken a sigh or a regret? Did he never drop a tear over thy memory? In the large and elegant drawing-room of one of the most splendid mansions in Waverley Place, a fair girl had just listened to an impassioned declaration of love from one who stood before her, waiting breathlessly the faintest motion of her lips. But the lady spoke not; her rapidly varying color was the only evidence that she had even heard the eloquent words that had just fallen upon her ear. The young man spoke again, and this time his voice was more low and tremulous than before, for his heart was heavy with doubt and apprehension. “Elizabeth—Miss Munro—this suspense is very, very terrible—will you not speak to me?” A strange expression, like a sudden spasm of pain, passed over the face of the lady for a moment, and then she replied, calmly—“Did I hear you aright, Mr. Gordon? Did I understand you to say that you had never breathed words of love in the ear of another?” The eyes of Elizabeth Munro were bent upon those of Frederick Gordon with a steady, searching gaze, and his own drooped before them. At length he said, falteringly—“Yes—no—that is, I was young—it was nothing more than a passing fancy—a mere flirtation with a pretty girl I met in the country.”