“My Catherine,” said the lady, calmly withdrawing her hand “You know too little—far too little of the world, to judge how I stand in comparison to others. And what know you of Oliver Cromwell? Our reading has scarcely reached the invasion of Britain by the Romans.” “Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not yet recovered from her trance—“lady—Carl and I had not many books, so we read what we had over and over again! And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver Cromwell!” “You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you have read and what you have not.” Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very strong was the affection beginning to cement between the lady and the maiden. There was only one thing that disturbed Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these afternoons. When Archer Clifton would surprise them by suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still, and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as his arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearning she could not shake off. But then these things were of rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a companion;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession. Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that? She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first developments.