It was some time before Isabel perceived the change which had been wrought in her cousin’s feelings toward herself, and when she did, the knowledge served more than aught else, to reveal to her the state of her own heart. She saw she could not return her cousin’s passion, though she still loved him with the same sisterly affection as ever, and with this discovery came that of her own love for De Courtenay. Although her equal in rank, and even her superior in wealth, there was a romantic gallantry in her lover which had forbade him to woo her as others of like elevated station would have done. Though, therefore, her parent would have sanctioned the alliance at once, he was yet ignorant of the love the only son of his neighbor, the earl of Wardour, bore to his daughter. And though the lady Isabel thought of her absent lover daily, there was something—it might be maiden modesty, which made her shun breathing De Courtenay’s name. Several weeks had now elapsed, and months were beginning to pass away, since the departure of De Courtenay for Flanders. The time for his return had nearly arrived, and Isabel had even received a hasty note from him, breathing a thousand delicate flatteries, such as lovers only know how to pay and to receive, telling her to expect him at Deraine Hall, on this very afternoon—yet he came not. Why did he tarry? It was this knowledge which had made the lady Isabel watch so long from the terrace, down the avenue of her father’s park. Little did Lorraine think, as he gazed so devotedly into her face, that her thoughts even then were wandering upon another. Let it not be fancied that the lady Isabel trifled with her cousin’s feelings. Deeply, daily was she pained at his too evident love. She longed to tell him the truth, and yet she shrank from it. She could not inflict such agony upon his heart. She would have given worlds to have had the power of returning his love, but that had long since passed from her, and like the pitying executioner, she loathed striking the blow, which she knew must eventually be struck. And thus the story of those two beings went on, and while both were full of joy and hope, one, at least, had before him to drink, a cup, as yet unseen, of the bitterest agony. Alas! for the disappointments, the worse than utter wo, which a devoted heart experiences, when it discovers that its first deep love is in vain. Chapter III. _The Letter: The Discovery._ “She loves me—she loves me,” exclaimed the page joyfully, as he stood in a sequestered alley in the garden, a few hours later than when she first saw him, “yes!” he exclaimed, as if he could not too often repeat the glad tidings, “she loves me; and, poor, as I am, I may yet win her.” As he spoke his whole countenance lighted up; his slender figure dilated; his chest heaved; and all the lofty spirit of his sires shone in the boy’s eyes, and spoke in his tones.