“Frank, if I say he does not _hate_ me, it is the extent of all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a betrothal of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and I _wonder_ how I shall contrive to exist,—_I_, who love to be in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,—and, oh, my soul and body! I think how _shall_ I ever put life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I think—for I _must_ have something to occupy my whole soul with—that I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and give balls, and go to balls, and theatres; but then again I reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patroness of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, etc. One _must_ do _something_ to fill up the long, long days; one _must_ live _somehow_, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan might do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so wicked as the other.” “Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl, cease all these troubled thoughts about the future, unnatural to your age, and unwholesome to yourself! This whole cloud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to marry him. You have never promised to do so. It is a mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both for the purpose of keeping family property together, and cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there is nothing in it! I will speak to your father. I will enter the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth and social position, I am his peer. Besides, I wear my lady’s favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime?” The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question. “Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the last word of the trio,—Faith,—in sunbeam silk. No time was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw approaching the house.