“Then _you_ know something of it, you have given your heart to another. Come, Hagar, if you want to put me out of my misery by one stunning blow, say that! say that!” But Hagar sprang from his side, and trotted quickly into the yard of the Hall, kissing her hand to him as she went. He looked after her, doubting whether to follow her in or not. Finally, he slowly turned aside, and slowly paced his horse off to his mother’s cottage. * * * * * Grove Cottage was lighted up, and the lights glimmered through the intervening trees, as he rode up the grape walk, towards the door. Dismounting, and giving his horse in charge of a boy, he passed through the parlor into his own room immediately, scarcely noticing by a bow the rector or his mother, who were seated there. But the eyes of his mother saw his disturbance. She arose and followed him into the room. Gusty was sitting down on the foot of his bed, holding his temples together between his two hands. “What is the matter, Augustus, my dear? does your head ache?” Gusty did not reply. “_What_ is the matter, Gusty?” again she inquired, stooping down near him till the ends of her ringlets (for she still wore her hair in ringlets) brushed his cheek. “A _coup-de-soleil, belle-mère, un coup-de-soleil_.” “Gracious goodness! my dear, I never heard of such a thing at this season of the year! You must have your feet bathed, and ice on your head,” and she was hurrying off to get the requisites. “Come back, _petite maman_, the _coup-de-soleil_ flashed from Hagar Churchill’s eyes of fire, and struck my heart; bring ice for my heart, dear mother, or rather _no_, she administered enough of that,” said he, in a lachrymose tone. Emily Buncombe had stopped, turned round and stood still to hear him. When he ceased, she set the candle down on his dressing-table, and sitting down by his side, she said, “Indeed, I really was afraid of this—so you have lost your affections to Hagar?” “Couldn’t help it, mother dear.” “Gusty! you know I love you.” Gusty looked up inquiringly. “I am the best friend you have in the world, am I not?” “My dear mother.” “And I would not call upon you to make a sacrifice for _my_ sake, or for anything except duty, and your own happiness?” “Mother!” “Well, Gusty, I beg that you will give up all idea of Hagar.” “Alas! mother, she has told me as much herself.” “I am very glad of that.” “Yes, mother, _that_ was the sun stroke.” “You must not think of her any more, Gusty.” “What is the use of telling me _that_, mother, when she has rejected me?” “Oh!” said the mother, with maternal pique, “as to her _rejecting_ you, Gusty, _that_ was a girlish air—nine girls out of ten reject their lovers at first to try them—_you_ must resign her.”