Sir Everard saw, by the shifting flicker of the lamps, how pensiveness gathered on the bright face opposite him. Once or twice the girl raised a finger to the corner of her eyelid as if to press back a rising tear; sighs lifted her bosom. “Ah!” thought the old philosopher, “the goddess of modes is not so fancy free as I had thought. Here, truly, are all the signs of a gentle love tale. Perhaps the young man in the counting-house, or some sprightly haberdasher, who sees Miss pass to her work, and would fain capture for his own counter a face so fair and charming.” Sir Everard felt very old and stiff by the time Canterbury was reached, and half regretted his suggestion to his travelling companion, to continue their comradeship at supper. He thought it might have better become his years and aching bones to retire into a feather bed with a basin of gruel. Far indeed was he from guessing the singular emotions into which his old age was destined to be plunged that evening. * * * * * A fine room with a four-poster, no less indeed than the chamber which went by the name of “Great Queen Anne,” this was what the landlord proposed to allot to Sir Everard. A chimney you couldn’t beat in the kingdom for drawing, mine host averred, and a fire there this minute; agreeable to Sir Everard’s obliging communication. And what could he do for Miss? Sir Everard was a little shocked to hear Miss Pounce enter upon a brisk bargain for an attic, and hesitatingly began a courteous offer of his own apartment, when she interrupted him with the valiant good sense which he had already had cause to admire in her. “Not at all, sir! ’Tis what suits my station--so long as the sheets are clean and there’s a good bolt to the door; you’ll promise me that, Mr. Landlord? And if you can’t spare a warming pan, sure a hot brick will do vastly well. And now, sir, give me time to see my bandboxes in safety, and I’m for supper.” Even as she spoke she started. Her eye became fixed, her lips fell open upon a gasp of amazement. The healthy white bloom of her countenance turned to deathly pallor, and then a tide of blood rushed crimsoning to her forehead. Beholding this evidence of strong emotion, it scarcely needed the sight that met Sir Everard’s glance as he followed the direction of her eyes to confirm his instant conclusion. The young man, of course! Stay, the young man is a gentleman--poor nymph! Here then were joy, and fear, confusion, the warning of conscience, and artless passion, all mixed together.