"I received, a few days ago, a letter from my friend Bovyer, in which he enclosed one for you, which I was at liberty to read. Probably I should have submitted it to you earlier, but----" He did not finish the sentence, and stood quietly while I read the letter. The hot blood was crimsoning my neck and brow, and, without raising my eyes, I pushed the letter across the table, without speaking. He handed me another. A strong impulse seized me to fly from the room, but I had not courage to execute my desire. The second letter was fully as surprising as the first. It was from another of Mr. Winthrop's friends, who had frequented our hotel in New York. I recalled his face readily, and the impression his manners and conversation had made on my mind. He had fewer years to boast than Mr. Bovyer, but more good looks. I finished his letter, and, still holding it in my hand, unconsciously fell to recalling more distinctly my half-forgotten impressions of his personality. I remembered he could say brilliant things in an off-hand way, as if he were not particularly proud of the fact. I remembered, too, that he had genuine humor, and had often convulsed me with a merriment I was ashamed to betray; but, strange to say, of all those who had haunted Mr. Winthrop's parlors in those two weeks, not one had paid me so little attention as this Maurice Graem; and now both he and Mr. Bovyer had written, asking my guardian's permission to have me as life-long companion and friend. "What shall it be, Medoline? You cannot say yes to both of them." The question startled me. "Are you very anxious for me to leave Oaklands?" My lips quivered as I spoke. "Why, child, that is my trouble just now. I am not willing ever to lose you--certainly not so soon as these impetuous youths desire." "Mr. Bovyer is not young," I said, with a lightened heart. "What shall I say to them, then?" "That I do not want to leave Oaklands. I am so happy here." He made me no reply, but turned again to his writing-desk, and was locking the letters safely away when I left the room. Then I bethought me of the letter still unopened in my pocket, and was hastening to my room, when Mrs. Flaxman intercepted me. "Won't you come into my room, Medoline, just for a few minutes?" I followed her with some reluctance; for Mrs. Flaxman's few minutes, I imagined, might extend into a good many, if she got to talking. "I want to show the presents Mr. Bovver has sent us from New York--one for each of us." She lifted the cover from a box on her stand, and handed me the most superbly-bound book I had ever seen. "Yours is the prettiest," she said, admiringly, as I turned over the leaves, looking at the engravings. "Don't you like it, dear?" she asked, surprised that I was so silent over my prize. "Yes--if it had not come from Mr. Bovyer." "Why, Medoline! not like a gift coming from one so kind and true as he is?" "I wish I had never seen him." I threw down the book and burst into tears.