“Miss Walton,” said the lady, finishing the sentence for him, and recovering instantly her self-possession. “You wish to see my father? I will send him to you immediately;” and she glided from the room, leaving poor Vivian in doubt whether he were dreaming or awake. If awake, then were the half-dreaded Miss Walton and the lovely unknown of the stage-coach one and the same person! And he had wasted a whole precious fortnight, that he might have passed in her society! Well, he would make the most of his _present_ visit at any rate; and so thinking, he made his best bow to Mr. Walton, who now entered, and who, most cordially shaking hands with him, welcomed him to Walton Hall, as the son of his oldest and dearest friend. “When you sent up your card,” continued he, “I little thought that I should find in Vivian Russell the youth who so kindly assisted my daughter when our chariot was overturned. I regret that we did not know you then; but we must make up for lost time. Your uncle promised me a long visit from you, and I trust you have come to fulfill the promise.” After a short conversation, Vivian agreed to return in time for breakfast the next day, and remain for several weeks. CHAPTER III. “Down, Vivian, down!” exclaimed Margaret Walton, as she entered the breakfast room, from the lawn, and gracefully welcomed Mr. Vivian Russell to the Hall. The dog had been named and presented to her father, by our hero’s uncle, a short time before; and Vivian thought he had never known the mimic of his own name, till now, when pronounced by that sweet and playful voice. Margaret seemed to him lovelier than ever, in her plain white robe, her color heightened by exercise, and a few wild flowers, carelessly wound into the soft braids of her hair. “Papa is a late riser, Mr. Russell, and we must wait breakfast for him; but he will soon be down now—” as she spoke, she seated herself, and began, with an arch, sidelong glance at Vivian, who could not repress a smile—yes! actually began, to tear in pieces another of those tormenting little notes! “Hum!” said Vivian to himself, “the clandestine correspondence goes swimmingly on, it seems. I will think of her no more.” “Think of her no more!” He thought of nothing else all that day and the next and the next; and each day with a more fervent and impassioned devotion! She was so mild, yet so noble!—so tenderly beautiful! he half worshiped her already. And yet those papers. He detested deceit from his soul. Falsehood, equivocation, deception of any kind, from a child he had been too proud to stoop to them; and here he was, irretrievably in love with one who had evidently something wrong to conceal. One day, the servant brought her a note—“From Sir George Elwyn, Miss.” A smile dimpled her cheek as she read, and then it shared the fate of many that had gone before it, and the bits were preserved as usual in the little basket by her side.