Still, now and then, hints had reached her of an “understanding” on the subject, a family arrangement, of which the principals were Sir Ralph and the beautiful Florence. Her own observation had long since discovered that if such were not the state of things, it was from no backwardness on the part of the lady: but hitherto her thoughts had never rested on the possibility of there being any foundation in fact, for the rumours she had heard; for Sir Ralph had been at no to hide his aversion for his so-called cousin, his more than indifference, his absolute dislike to her society. Nor had he spoken of her with any prejudice or exaggeration, which might have been attributed to some other motive. He had simply allowed it to be plainly seen that he did not like, even while he could not but, in a sense, admire her. One expression of his, Marion recalled distinctly. Agreeing with her one day when she happened to allude incidentally to Miss Vyse’s great and peculiar beauty, she had heard him whisper, mutter rather, to himself: “Beautiful, yes, no doubt. But there are some kinds of beauty, than which I would rather have positive ugliness.” All this had long ago decided Marion that the reports which had reached her on the subject were mere foundationless gossip; never before this evening had it come home to her girlish heart, with all its fresh belief in “love,” as the necessary precursor of marriage; never before had she realized that the case in question might be a sad exception to her rule—that heart and hand do not always go together—that Ralph himself might be bound in honour to marry the beautiful Florence, while his heart had been given to the simple, trusting girl, who long ago had allowed him to steal away hers in exchange. Her quick imagination, once it had seized the clue, was at no loss to follow out its discovery. “It is all plain to me now,” thought Marion, “clear its daylight. And it is all over.” But as she lay down to sleep her last thought was: “I am content with my share. I would rather have his heart. I have got it and,” she added almost fiercely, “I will keep it.” She had sat up later than usual that evening; and the next morning she was somewhat behind time in making her appearance. The clock struck the half hour after eight as she finished dressing. Just as she was leaving her room she heard the front door bell ring; and curious to see who could be so early a visitor, she passed quickly through the drawing-room on to the terrace, which sideways overlooked the entrance to the house. There to her amazement she descried Sir Ralph Severn! What could he be come about at so unusual an hour? The little mystery however was soon explained. A slight bustle in the room within, and in another moment Lofty and Sybil, laden with lovely, fresh flowers, made their appearance on the terrace. “Lotty! Sybil!” she exclaimed “where in the world have you got these lovely flowers?”