"No, 'tis fancy," he replied, looking round; "my earnestness has startled you, poor child--poor child, indeed, if you loved me!--an outcast, a wanderer. Forget all we have been saying, Minnie," he added, sorrowfully; "for be sure of this, if we _really_ love, or are to love, some great event will call that affection to light--prove and hallow it; for it will be based on esteem, else you had not trusted me so far, nor I, been so confident towards you. Come, let us leave this old ruin; you are terrified to-day. I will see you outside of its huge walls, and then we must part; once on your black mare, with old Thomas beside you, you will forget this. Let us go, child; why, you tremble still!" and, more with fatherly care than aught else, he drew her arm beneath his own, and they silently quitted the ruin. "Now, will you doubt my perspicacity again, Formby?" cried Marmaduke Burton, stepping from beneath the dark archway, and dragging the half alive Juvenal after him. "I told you they met in secret. I wish we could have heard all they said." "I'm horror-stricken!" shivered Juvenal, with genuine truthfulness. "What is to be done with her?" "Lock her up! we'll soon hunt him out of this neighbourhood. Come out through this side-passage, my buggy's there; they must not know we heard them yet!" CHAPTER XII. Minnie returned home at a quick gallop. She felt as if pursued by some visionary being. Not once did she pause or look back, after the one gentle wave of her hand to Miles, who stood statue-like, watching her, beside the old ruin, as she passed. Even poor, old Thomas could not extract a word from her, she flew so quickly homewards. On alighting from "Jet," she hastened to her own room, and, throwing off the hat which bound her brows, sat down to think, and thus she sat some silent moments; then rising gently, as though she had held communing with some spirit, she crept quietly about, as she changed her riding-suit for her ordinary one. When this was accomplished, she opened her door, and stealing down the passage, rapped at her aunt Dorcas's room. "Come in," answered the quiet voice which ever fell soothingly on her ear, and Minnie was in an instant beside her. A few desultory remarks passed about her ride, where she had been, etc.; to these Minnie replied with evident constraint. Dorcas at last noticed her manner, and, looking up from a purse she was knitting, exclaimed, "My child, are you not well? Why do you seem so much oppressed?" This was all the young heart required to unburthen itself. She flung her arms round her aunt's neck, and burst into tears. "Dear, dear aunt!" she sobbed; "forgive me--forgive Minnie--for deceiving you, though not for long, dear aunt." "My child, what do you mean? Good heavens! what has occurred?" and she folded her arms around her. "Aunt, I have wickedly deceived you," sobbed the girl still; "I--I----." She was unable to continue for her tears.