Berkeley, who gazed at Louisa from time to time with ill-concealed admiration and gratified vanity, felt that the absence of the earl and countess at this interesting juncture boded well for his success, opportunities for a tête-à-tête in that usually numerous and always aristocratic household being few and far between. Lady Louisa, who more than half divined her admirer’s hopes, was full of her brief and hurried interview with me, and, in anticipation of a scene, felt bored and worried; while poor Cora’s thoughts were all her own; a little—no, it was a great sorrow, which none could know or sympathize with, filled her heart in secret, for she was not communicative, and thus, while she shared all the confidences and gossip of my Lady Louisa, gave but little of her own in return. So the progress of tiffin was "dooced slow," as Berkeley thought it, and he felt somewhat relieved when Lady Louisa rose, and, with a smile, said to Cora— "Excuse me, I am now going to write my letters;" adding to him, "I shall not forget," with another smile that, could he have read it aright, boded but little success to his cherished plans. Punctually to the time, Lady Louisa sailed into the library, where Berkeley, whose courage had been alternately ebbing and flowing, was in waiting. He handed her a seat, and, after a few deprecatory remarks, by way of preface, took her right hand between his own, and, as she did not immediately withdraw it, he assumed fresh courage, and made a formal declaration of his love and admiration of her, and then, before she could speak, he rambled on about his finances, his social habits, his income—some six thousand per annum—his further expectations, and a great deal more to the same purpose. Lady Louisa remained perfectly silent, and this silence, as he had nothing more to say, caused him infinite confusion. "You do not speak—you do not answer, dear Lady Louisa. Do you not understand me? I tell you that I love you with all the devotion of which the human heart is capable, and I pray you to pardon the—aw, aw—presumption of one in every respect so unworthy of you, in venturing to address you in the language of love; but who can control the—aw—emotions of the heart!" Still she did not speak. "Say that you pity—say that you—aw—understand me!" he urged. "I understand, but cannot pity you," replied Louisa, calmly and without betraying the slightest flutter or embarrassment. "And I beg to assure you that—that, in this matter, you must——" "Address the earl, your father, dearest Lady Louisa—aw, aw—in writing, or verbally?" was the cool and rapid question. "Neither verbally nor in writing," said she, rising, and assuming a dignity of bearing that made Berkeley feel himself intolerably little. "Aw, aw—the dooce! Then how?" he asked, having recourse to his eyeglass.