“Now that you ask me in that tone, May, I scarcely know. I suppose I meant to show him how inconsiderate, how impossible his hopes were; that there was nothing in his station or prospects that could warrant this presumption. I suppose I had something of this sort on my mind, but I own to you now, your haughty glance has completely routed all my wise resolutions.” “Perhaps you speculated on the influence of that peculiar knowledge of his family history you appear to be possessed of?” said May, with some pique. “Perhaps so,” was the dry rejoinder. “And which you do not mean to confide to _me?_” said the girl, proudly. “I have not said so. So long as you maintained that Mr. Layton was to you nothing beyond a mere acquaintance, my secret, as you have so grandly called it, might very well rest in my own keeping. If, however, the time were come that he should occupy a very different place in your regard--” “Instead of saying 'were come,' Loo, just say, 'If the time might come,” said May, timidly. “Well, then, 'if the time _might_ come,' I _might_ tell all that I know about him.” “But then it might be too late. I mean, that it might come when it could only grieve, and not guide me.” “Oh, if I thought _that_, you should never know it! Be assured of one thing, May: no one ever less warred against the inevitable than myself. When I read, 'No passage this way,' I never hesitate about seeking another road.” “And I mean to go mine, and without a guide either!” said May, moving towards the door. “So I perceived some time back,” was the dry reply of Mrs. Morris, as she busied herself with the papers before her. “Good-night, dear, and forgive my interruption,” said May, opening the door. “Good-night, and delightful dreams to you,” said Mrs. Morris, in her own most silvery accents. And May was gone. The door had not well closed when Mrs. Morris was again, pen in hand, glancing rapidly over what she had written, to catch up the clew. This was quickly accomplished, and she wrote away rapidly. It is not “in our brief” to read that letter; nor would it be “evidence;” enough, then, that we say it was one of those light, sparkling little epistles which are thrown off in close confidence, and in which the writer fearlessly touches any theme that offers. She sketched off the Heathcotes with a few easy graphic touches, giving a very pleasing portraiture of May herself, ending with these words:--