In her feelings towards Frankfort, she evidently "let I dare not, wait upon I would." His was just the heart to appreciate the candour and the delicacy of sentiment betrayed rather than displayed in this record of human weakness, suffering, and wrong. I have shown you that he was a man accustomed, to _use_ his reason. It must be owned that he had never found this so difficult to do as now: he was thoroughly unselfish; but he had a mother and sisters--how would _they_ look on such connection? Would it be wise to draw. Eleanor, from the retirement of her father's home? Facile, easily impressed, would she, were she even free from the marks of her galling fetters, be suited to him as a companion for life, or rather could _he_ make her happy? Then he asked himself why this question of suitability had not presented itself to his mind before now. It was fortunate for Eleanor that the question resolved itself to this. His own position, his mother, sisters, family connections, all became secondary considerations before the one grand hope of brightening this joyless creature's career... Frankfort wrote Eleanor a few lines, as follows:--"I thank you for the last line of your letter--`Your _heart_ will teach you to pity the unfortunate Eleanor.' For both our sakes, let us pause one day ere we allude again to the terrible recital I have passed the night in reading. "It may seem cruel to say so little, but day is dawning. You know how averse I am to decide suddenly on momentous points. Ere long the family will be assembled for prayer; we shall meet there; till then, adieu, dear Eleanor." Eleanor found this note on her dressing-table. She dwelt most upon the three last words. She was first in the school-room, Mr Trail followed, and the household worshippers were soon collected. As Eleanor was leaving the room, Frankfort drew near. They shook hands. It was a friendly greeting on his part; she bent her head and walked slowly by, he did not follow. In after-life Frankfort would look back on that day as the most momentous in his existence--even more so than that terrible one on which-- But, what am I doing? Anticipating what it is not yet time you should know, my reader. He was absent the greater part of the day, meditating in the solitude of the hills. The little settlement lay below the mountain slope where he sat. It was a busy, happy, thriving place; the sunlight fell on richly-cultivated lands and herds of fine cattle, the vineyard was filled with workers; Marian and Ormsby were there laughing, he wreathing her brow with a garland of grapes and vine-leaves--she looked like a Bacchante; their voices in gay harmony floated up the green hill-side; women and children were seated in shady nooks at work and at play; the Trails and Mr and Mrs Daveney were walking up and down the avenue in earnest conversation.