Florence disappeared through a door leading into the main portion of the building, while Jameson arose and went out to meet the two men, who were now close by the stoop, and looking about as if undecided what door to try at for admission. "Let us take a stroll in the garden," he said, descending the steps, "the lady is not quite ready yet; how beautiful the morning is," and passing his arm through that of a man who seemed some years older than himself, and who had accompanied the clergyman, he turned an angle of the building. The clergyman followed them a pace or two, then returning sat down upon the steps that led to the stoop and took off his hat. "This is a singular affair," he muttered, putting back the locks from his forehead and bending his elbows upon his knees, with the deep sigh of a man who finds the air deliciously refreshing, "I have half a mind to pluck a handful of flowers, step into my chaise and go back to the city again; but for the sweet young lady I would. There is something about the young man that troubles me--what if my good-nature has been imposed upon--what if old Mr. Hurst has deeper reasons than his pride--that I would not bend to a minute--and he gives no other reason if they tell me truly. This young man is his book-keeper, and so his love is presumptuous. Probably old Hurst has imported a cargo of aristocratic arrogance from Europe, and the young people tell the truth. If so, why I will even marry them, and let the stately gentleman make the best of it. Still, I half wish the thing had not fallen upon me." Meantime the bridegroom and his friend walked slowly toward the water. "And so you have snared the bird at last," said Byrne. "I did not think you could manage to get her down here. When did she come?" "Yesterday," said Jameson. "Alone?" "Quite alone; her father thinks her visiting a friend." "But _you_ left the city yesterday." "Yes." "And not with her?" "She came down alone--so did I." "But directly after--ha!" Jameson smiled, that same crafty smile that had curled his lips even when they rested upon the forehead of Florence Hurst. "And did she sanction this. By heavens! I would not have believed it--so proud, so sensitive!" "No, no, Byrne, to do Florence justice, she supposes that I came down this morning; but the old house is large, and it was easy enough for me to find a nook to sleep in, without her knowledge." "But what object have you in this?" "Why, as to my object, it is scarcely settled yet; but it struck me that by this movement I might obtain a hold upon her father's family pride, should his affection for Florence fail. The haughty old don would hardly like it to be known in the city that his lovely daughter--his only child--had spent the night alone, in an old country-house, with her father's book-keeper." "But how would he know this; surely you would not become the informant?"