But, to do Annot justice, she knew nothing then of the tender relations that had begun to exist between Hester and her cousin, though we do not suppose that the knowledge would have much influenced that enterprising young lady in her plans and views, her wishes and purpose. Hester felt that she had been ready enough--too ready, she now feared--to show him all her own heart, till that other girl came, and she thought till now that it had frozen up under Annot's presence and too evident influence on him. That evening she did not appear at dinner, but sent excuses downstairs, and refused to receive even a visit from Annot. That would have been indeed too much to have undergone; but anon the mental storm passed away; the ruddy dawn stole into Hester's bedroom, and she rested her weary head against the open window to inhale the fresh morning breeze that came up the woody valley of the Esk, and over parterres of dewy flowers that were sweet enough to grace the bank whereon the Queen of Elfin slept. That day she saw on Annot's mystic finger--the fourth of the left hand--a ring she had not observed before, and knew who was the donor, and what the gift meant, but the knowledge could not give her a keener pang. She thought of Roland's gift, and of the emotions that had filled her heart when he had clasped it round her neck. She could not return that gift to Roland without some reason; and she apparently had none; but yet its retention was most repugnant to her, and never would she wear it. He had given it to her as his cousin--nothing more, now it would seem. Did he mean it so, _then_? The dainty slippers, with blue embroidery on buff leather, which had formed a portion of her daily and loving work, were relinquished now and cast aside, too probably to be never finished. Hester Maule felt all the shame and sorrow of loving one in secret, whose heart and preference were given to another. What evil turn of Destiny had wrought this for her? Why had she so mistaken--if she _had_ indeed done so--his mere playful, cousinly regard for aught else than its true value? Yet--yet there had been times--especially on that night when he gave her the jewels--that a gleam of tenderness, of yearning, of love had lit up his dark eyes--an expression that had gone straight to her heart and made every nerve thrill. Why had she not guessed then--why not foreseen what was to happen? But the _future_ is always oddly woven up with the _present_, we are told; and 'how strange are the small threads that first begin to spin the great woofs of our life story--unnoted, unheeded at the time--they stand out clearly and plainly to our mental vision afterwards, and we ask ourselves with bitter anguish, "Why did we not guess--why did we not foresee it?" Better, perhaps, that the power of prevision is denied us, since we can neither alter nor avert the doom that awaits us along the path of life.'