As for Frederick, though his first feeling, I confess, was great thankfulness at being permitted to sit down, he had no objection to have his hand held by those soft, long fingers, or to bear the eager look of eyes which shown upon him with a kind of worship. He told her how he had been coming to her for a long time, but had been detained--how he had come to take her home--how they must start next day, if possible, and travel as quickly as possible; and how his mother and sister were awaiting her anxiously, hoping to make her happy, and to comfort her in her trouble. Innocent leant back in her chair, and smiled and listened. She made no reply. It did not seem necessary to make any reply. She held his hand fast and let him talk to her, not caring much what he said. I don’t know if her intelligence was much developed at this period of her life. She understood what he was saying, but it was as a song to her, or a story that he was telling. She did not mind how long she listened, but it required no personal response--took no personal hold of her. The picture he made of The Elms, and his mother and sister, produced no sort of effect upon her mind. She was satisfied. Everything was unreal and vague except the one tangible fact, that he was sitting beside her and that she was holding his hand. It was not love at first sight. The child did not know, and never inquired what it was. She had got some one--some one belonging to her like other people, some one who did not sneer or ridicule, but smiled at her: who called her name softly: who found no fault. She was altogether transported by this wonderful sensation. She wanted no more; no mothers nor sisters, no change, no conditions such as make life possible. She knew nothing about all that. Her understanding had nothing to do with the question. It was barely developed, not equal to any strain; and in this matter it seemed quite possible to do without it; whether she understood or not did not matter. She was happy; she wanted nothing more. “Must you go away?” she cried with a start, holding his hand closer, as he moved. “Not to leave you,” he said; “but if we go away to-morrow--Can you go to-morrow, Innocent?” “I will go when you go,” she said. “My dear cousin, you must be less vague. Can you be ready? Can you have your packing done, and all your little affairs settled? Where is your maid? She will know best.” “I have no maid. I have nothing to pack. I am ready now, whenever you please; only you must not leave me. You must never leave me,” she cried, clasping her hands round his arm. “I have no intention of leaving you,” he said, half flattered, half embarrassed, “till I have taken you to my mother. It is my mother whom you are going to--my mother--I told you--and Ellinor----” “Will you leave me when we get there?” the girl asked eagerly, still holding him. Yes, it was flattering; but possibly it might become a bore.