“No stranger,” replied Westover, shaking my hand, as we were now near the cottage door, “but however that may be, De Lacy, take my advice: be patient—be prudent; engage yourself by any ties you like; but do not hurry your marriage, at least, till I am able to speak further, and to tell you more—and now, good bye; come and see me in London; to-morrow, if you can, but come and see me often; for I do not feel very sure whether it is the living or the dead part of my regiment I am going to join in a few weeks.” I paused for a few moments before I went up to the house; but, on knocking at the door, I was told by the little servant-girl that the count had got his class with him. I then asked for Madame de Salins. She was out, the girl said, but _Miss_ de Salins was at home. O, how horrible that frightful epithet of Miss struck me, when applied to my Mariette. I asked to see her, however, and was shown into a little room just opposite that in which I had been the day before. Mariette was sitting reading, and bright and beautiful she looked in her homely attire. She was evidently very glad to see me; and I was glad to see she was a little agitated, too; for she had been so much calmer than I was at our first meeting, that I had teazed myself with the thought ever since of her loving me less than I loved her. She told me that her father would not be free for two or three hours, but that her mother would soon be back, and would be very glad to see me. I said I would wait to see Madame de Salins, though I feared I could not remain till her father was at liberty. O, how artful I had become! By this manœuvre I gained nearly an hour of sweet conversation with Mariette, a short interview with Madame de Salins, and a good excuse for coming again on the following day. I do not remember distinctly one word of the conversation between Mariette and myself; but I do know that, to me, it was very delightful: that we dwell much upon former times, every thought of which was full of young affection; that Mariette had forgot nothing any more than myself, and that the memories of those days seemed as dear to her as they were to me. We carried our minds so completely back to the past: we plunged into childhood again so deeply, that I almost expected she would come and sit down upon my knee, and put her arms round my neck, and coax me to give her some trifle, or to gather her some flower beyond her reach. Then again, we talked of our wanderings and all the vicissitudes we had seen; and, once or twice, we came very near the subject of my journey to Hamburgh. When we did so, I fancied that I could see a peculiarly grave and almost sorrowful expression come into her beautiful eyes, and I remarked that she seemed quite as willing to turn the conversation in another direction as myself. However, nothing painful of any kind occurred in that short interview—short, O, how short it seemed, and how very speedy the return of Madame de Salins.