If Phil Arbuthnot should ever prove himself my worst enemy, I never could forget the considerateness of that morning. He was tender-hearted and kind as a woman, and great, strong man as he was, there was a delicacy of feeling and gentleness about him, that suffered with everything weak and suffering, and strove, at all costs, to give aid and comfort. And aid and comfort, prompted by such a heart, could not fail to soothe. In his eyes, women were sacred; their influence over him unbounded. If he only had been thrown with those who could have elevated and purified, instead of narrowing and lowering his nature, how noble and large-hearted a man he might have been. He had sacrificed his profession, his prospects in life, and all that elevates and nerves a man, to his love for Josephine. How far she accepted it, how she meant to requite it, there is no need to say. I think she liked him; I think that she felt for him a tenderness that no one else could ever awaken in her heart. He had been her lover ever since they were girl and boy together, and in those young days, perhaps, she had fancied that the happiest thing in the world, would be to marry Phil. But such sweet romance had been scorched and shrivelled by the first breath of the world. Josephine had renounced such folly early; she was wise and prudent beyond her years, and she had been trained in a good school. Some wondered that Mrs. Churchill could trust her daughter so constantly with a man of as pleasing an address as Phil; cousins were so apt to fancy each other. "I have perfect confidence in Josephine," said Mrs. Churchill, proudly. It was not misplaced; Josephine Churchill might have been trusted with Cupid in person, if he had not been a desirable _parti_. "What time is it?" I asked of Phil, in a low tone, after I had exhausted every device for prolonging my breakfast. "Five minutes to ten," he answered, looking at his watch. "Shall we take a turn on the piazza, if you have finished?" I followed him to the piazza. "It is too sunny for you," he said, as I screened my aching eyes from the light. "The parlor is pleasanter." Ella was at the piano, playing some light air (very light, indeed, for the piano was not her forte), and chatting with Capt. McGuffy, who hung over her. Mrs. Churchill, Josephine, Grace, Ellerton, Victor and Mr. Rutledge were at the other end of the room. "We shall miss you so much, Mr. Viennet," Josephine was saying, in a very charming tone. "Your place cannot be filled. Mr. Rutledge, cannot you manage to have him arrive at the station a few minutes too late?" "Why didn't you suggest it a little sooner, Miss Josephine?" said Mr. Rutledge, with a smile, as he looked at his watch. "I think I hear the horses at the door now. Thomas will attend to your baggage--don't trouble yourself, Mr. Viennet."