In this dreary season of the year Laura Malcolm was living quite alone at the Manor-house. Celia Clare had been invited to spend a month with a well-to-do aunt at Brighton, and Brighton in the winter season represented the highest form of terrestrial bliss that had ever come within Celia’s experience. She had vague dreams of Paris, as of a city that must far surpass even Brighton in blissfulness; but she had no hope of seeing Paris, unless, indeed, she were to get married, when she would insist on her husband taking her there for the honeymoon. ‘Of course, the poor creature would do anything I told him then,’ said Celia; ‘it would be different afterwards. I dare say when we had been married a year he would try to trample on me.’ ‘I can’t imagine any one trampling upon you, Celia,’ said Laura, laughing. ‘Well, I think I should make it rather difficult for him. But all men are tyrants. Look at papa, for instance; the best of men, with a heart of gold; but let the cook make a failure, and he goes on all dinner-time like the veriest heathen. Oh, they are altogether an inferior breed, believe me. There is your young man, Laura--very handsome, very gentlemanlike, but as weak as water.’ ‘Whom do you mean by my young man?’ asked Laura. ‘You know, or you would not blush so violently. Of course I mean John Treverton, your future husband. And, by-the-bye, you are to be married within a year after old Mr. Treverton’s death. I hope you have begun to order your trousseau.’ ‘I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Celia. You know very well that I am not engaged to Mr. Treverton. I may never be engaged to him.’ ‘Then what were you two talking about that night under the chestnuts, when you lingered so far behind us?’ ‘We are not engaged. That is quite enough for you to know.’ ‘Then if you are not engaged you ought to be. That is all I can say. It is ridiculous to leave things to the last moment, if you are ever so sure of each other. Old Mr. Treverton died early in January, and it is now late in November. I feel quite uncomfortable about going away and leaving your affairs in such an unsatisfactory state.’ Celia, who was the most frivolous of beings, affected a talent for business, and assumed an elder sister air towards Laura Malcolm that was pleasant in its absurdity. ‘You need not be uneasy, Celia. I can manage my own affairs.’ ‘I don’t believe you can. You are awfully clever, and have read more books than I have ever seen the outside of in the whole course of my life. But you are not the least little bit practical or business-like. You run the risk of losing this dear old house, and the estate that belongs to it, as coolly as if it were the veriest trifle. I begin to be afraid that you have a sneaking kindness for that worthless brother of mine.’ ‘You need have no such fear. I feel kindly towards your brother for auld lang syne, and because I think he likes me----’