"I don't think you can help liking him, Jessie," said Christabel, as the two girls went upstairs to bed. The younger lingered a little in Miss Bridgeman's room for the discussion of their latest ideas. There was a cheerful fire burning in the large basket grate, for autumn nights were chill upon that wild coast. Christabel assumed her favourite attitude in front of the fire, with her faithful Randie winking and blinking at her and the fire alternately. He was a privileged dog--allowed to sleep on a sheepskin mat in the gallery outside his mistress's door, and to go into her room every morning, in company with the maid who carried her early cup of tea; when, after the exchange of a few remarks, in baby language on her part, and expressed on his by a series of curious grins and much wagging of his insignificant apology for a tail, he would dash out of the room, and out of the house, for his morning constitutional among the sheep upon some distant hill--coming home with an invigorated appetite, in time for the family breakfast at nine o'clock. "I don't think you can help liking him--as--as a casual acquaintance!" repeated Christabel, finding that Jessie stood in a dreamy silence, twisting her one diamond ring--a birthday gift from Miss Courtenay--round and round upon her slender finger. "I don't suppose any of us can help liking him," Jessie answered at last, with her eyes on the fire. "All I hope is, that some of us will not like him too much. He has brought a new element into our lives--a new interest--which may end by being a painful one. I feel distrustful of him." "Why distrustful? Why, Jessie, you who are generally the very essence of flippancy--who make light of almost everything in life--except religion--thank God, you have not come to that yet!--you to be so serious about such a trifling matter as a visit from a man who will most likely be gone back to London in a fortnight--gone out of our lives altogether, perhaps: for I don't suppose he will care to repeat his experiences in a lonely country-house." "He may be gone, perhaps--yes--and it is quite possible that he may never return--but shall we be quite the same after he has left us? Will nobody regret him--wish for his return--yearn for it--sigh for it--die for it--feeling life worthless--a burthen, without him?" "Why, Jessie, you look like a Pythoness." "Belle, Belle, my darling, my innocent one, you do not know what it is to care--for a bright particular star--and know how remote it is from your life--never to be brought any nearer! I felt afraid to-night when I saw you and Mr. Hamleigh at the piano--you playing, he leaning over you as you played--both seeming so happy, so united by the sympathy of the moment! If he is not a good man--if----"