“Rose! Rose!” “Ay, it is Rose now, but it was Miss Aynton then,” continued she, beating her foot upon the floor. “You determined, I say, within yourself that I should never so forget our relative positions as to misconstrue any attentions you might please to pay me; you held yourself so high, and stooped so condescendingly when you did stoop, that, upon my part at least, you resolved to nip the young beginnings of love, if such there should be, in their very bud. And, Sir Richard Lisgard, you succeeded.” She rose to her full height, and pointed at him with her white hand contemptuously; her swan-like bosom moved, with rapid ebb and flow, in angry scorn; her curling lips gave wormwood to her words. And yet, although he felt her biting speech, the young man thought he had never seen her half so beautiful, half so worthy to be his wife. “It is you who are proud now, Rose,” returned he, speaking with effort. “I did not think that I could ever have heard such words from a woman's lips, and yet have sought to woo her. It is your turn to play the tyrant; but though, by Heaven, you look every inch a queen”---- “I thank you, sir,” interrupted the girl coldly; “but you need say no more. There is no necessity to offer me that one more chance which your generosity suggests to you. However incomprehensible and audacious, coming from these humble lips, may such an answer sound, Sir Richard Lisgard is refused.” “Rose, dear Rose,” cried the young man passionately; “if this be punishment, do not push it, I pray you, further than I can bear. There is something in your face in such ill accordance with your speech, that I cannot yet despair. Is it not possible, sweet girl, that at some future time--not now, but when you have seen how humble and devoted I can be, that you may teach your heart to love me?” “No.” A full and rounded word, without a flaw of doubt to mar its clearness; a sentence irreversible; a judgment against which he felt there could be no appeal. “But look you, Rose,” continued the baronet huskily; “it is said that the true love grows after marriage. Suppose I am content to wed you on that chance, as in very truth I am. Look you, the scene is fair you behold through yonder window, and all that you see is mine. The Abbey, too, is mine, or will be so at my mother's death.” [A shadow of pain flits across my Lady's face, to hear her son speak thus so lightly of that loss, to please a girl whom he has not known six months, and who does not even love him.] “I have broad acres, girl, fields, farms--a goodly rent-roll. My wife--the Lady Lisgard--will have more than enough of wealth to maintain her high position. Rose! have you no ambition?” Miss Aynton here again grew strangely agitated; once more her cheeks grew pale, and her limbs trembled beneath her. “Wretched girl! can she indeed be going to sell herself?” thought my Lady.