"I hoped you were more than that," he said in a confused tone; "I knew you were very young, your uncle told me that. He told me something else about you," he went on trying to gain courage, and trying to read her countenance, which without a shadow of suspicion was turned towards him in all its sweetness and candour. "I hope he gave me a good character." "Your character needs no giving; it is written in your face." He spoke in a lower and more hurried tone, and she once again raised her eyes to his in surprise. "Is it true? what does he mean when he says your future is arranged for? Is there any one?" he brought out in quick agitated tones. Margaret was startled; if her uncle had said this, he meant it, and she knew enough of his will to dread having to submit to any thing he chose for her. Her whole being rose in protest: "My life is not arranged for, though I do not know what those words mean, and there is no one," she added very vehemently. He saw how true her words were, and he hurried on afraid of losing courage, of not being able to say what he wanted to say, if he paused. "Margaret," he said in a tone that compelled her attention, and trying to raise himself as he read her face. "If you have no one, if there is no one, if you are free to be won, may I not try and win you?" Poor Margaret shrank back. "No!" she said, breathlessly, "oh! no!" "May I not try?" he pleaded. "I am more than double your age, but need that matter? I never have loved any one, and I think I could make you happy. I should not expect you to love me in the same way, and I could give you much, I could surround you with luxuries, and grudge you nothing for your happiness, you should not be dependent." "If I loved you for these things I should be unworthy, do you not see that?" He did not heed her. "You know you do not care for this narrow life, you would like being in the South, in London, you should have a house where you liked, you should do what you liked." "I cannot," said Margaret, red and pale alternately, "I am sure you mean to be kind, but your words are hateful to me. They are bribing me. No! better to live anywhere, better to be as we are, and as you say dependent, than to be false to ourselves. I cannot say anything else, and oh! pray, pray, say nothing about this to any one, do forget it. It is quite, quite impossible." His voice was broken by disappointment and a sense of helplessness. "I cannot forget it," he said, and, hearing Mrs. Dorriman's voice, Margaret left the room hurriedly. He dwelt upon her words in the way that people have of hugging a painful remembrance. There _must_ be some one else he thought, and he tried so to comfort himself, but in vain. His vanity was wounded, but he was too thoroughly in love with her to heed that so much, he was cruelly hurt. What was the use of the flattering assertions of his people? he had always been assured of success if he wanted success, and now he had failed.