He was altogether crushed by this unexpected blow. That any young lady in Hazlehurst could refuse the honour of an alliance with him had never occurred to him as within the range of possibility. He had taken plenty of time in making up his mind upon the matrimonial question. He had been careful and deliberate, and had waited till he was thoroughly convinced that Celia Clare was precisely the kind of wife he wanted, before committing himself by a serious declaration. He had been careful that his polite attentions should not be too significant, until the final die was cast. His journey to Brittany had given him ample leisure for reflection. Prostrate in his comfortable berth on board the St. Malo steamer, in the dim light of the cabin lamp, lulled by the monotonous oscillation of the steamer, he had been able to contemplate the question of marriage from every standpoint, and this offer of to-night was the result of those meditations. Celia told him, with all due courtesy, that she really did mean to refuse him. ‘You might do worse,’ he said, dolefully. ‘No doubt I might. Some rather vulgar person has compared matrimony to a bag of snakes, in which there is only one eel. Perhaps you are the one eel. But then you see I am not obliged to marry anybody. I can go on like Queen Elizabeth, ‘“In maiden meditation, fancy free.”’ ‘That’s not likely,’ said Mr. Sampson moodily. ‘A young lady of your stamp won’t remain single. You’re too attractive and too lively. No, you’ll marry some scamp for the sake of his good looks; and perhaps the day will come when you’ll remember this evening, and feel sorry that you rejected an honest man’s offer.’ They were at the house by this time, much to Celia’s relief, as she felt that the conversation could hardly be carried on further without unpleasantness. She stopped in the hall, and offered her hand to her dejected admirer. ‘Shake hands, Mr. Sampson, to show that you bear no malice,’ she said. ‘Be assured I shall always like and respect you as a friend of our family.’ She did not wait for his answer, but tripped lightly upstairs, determined not to make her appearance again that evening. Tom Sampson was inclined to return to his own house, without waiting to say good night to his client, but while he stood in the hall making up his mind on this point, John Treverton came out of the dining-room to look for him. ‘Why, Sampson, what are you doing out there?’ he cried. ‘Come in and have some supper. You haven’t eaten much since we left Paris.’ ‘Much,’ echoed Sampson dismally. ‘A segment of hard biscuit on board the boat, and a cup of weak tea at Dover, have been my only sustenance. But I don’t feel that I care about supper,’ he added, surveying the table with a melancholy eye. ‘I ought to be hungry, but I’m not.’ ‘Why, you seem quite low-spirited, Mr. Sampson,’ said Laura, kindly. ‘I am feeling a little low to-night, Mrs. Treverton.’