Now comes this power stealing into her bosom, and gently, so gently, yet so tightly, winding round and round her free heart, so that in its wild throbs it bruised itself against the pressure. Yes, she _would_ do as she pleased; she would ride another hunt if only to convince herself that she might do so. And she did so; yet when flying over the moor or heath, when thundering down some declivity, or spurring her horse to some fearful leap, a hand of air would seem to fall upon her wrist arresting it, a voice of air fall on her ears forbidding her, and impatiently, like a young courser throwing up his head and champing the bit, she would shake off the hand and voice of air, and take the leap; but then—a pain would drop and sink heavily, more heavily, upon her spirits, weighing them utterly down—no more glad triumph! no more waving of the cap, or _if_ the cap was waved it was in defiance of the heart sinking like a plumb-weight through the bosom. “I _will_ do as I please,” many times she would say to herself. “Well, who hinders you?” “herself,” would say to her; “not Raymond, certainly, he never attempts such a thing, he only _suffers_ when he sees you thus.” So Hagar struggled against the power that was subduing her. It was when this struggle was nearly over that Hagar and Raymond sat in the piazza under the moonbeams, shining through the trellis work. Hagar, as I said, with her slight form erect, and her glittering eyes fixed upon the opposite end of the trellis. Raymond holding her small hand that quivered in his palm like the heart of a captured bird—Raymond with his graceful head bowed to catch her words. “Not yet, dearest Raymond, not _just yet_.” “But, Hagar, love, _why_, what _now_ hinders our marriage? Just see, dearest, how you have put me off! bethink you, from the time of my arrival at the Heath before my father’s death, I began to love you, would have married you, my father wished particularly to unite us and bless our union before he died, but you, Hagar, came daily with your ‘not yet’ weekly, monthly; with your ‘not yet’ until the old man died without seeing the desire of his eyes. Was that kind, wild Hagar? Well! and since his death, you have said ‘not yet, do not let us join our hands over a scarcely closed grave,’ and I agreed with you. I took leave of you and returned to the charge of my preparatory school. A year passed, and procuring a substitute to take care of my school, I came again—again renewed my entreaty, and again Hagar with paling cheek insisted ‘not yet,’ and again I left the Hall alone. Believing, although you would not confess it, that your reluctance arose from an unwillingness to leave your native place, without consulting you I abandoned my business and came down here; here I have lingered weeks, and still Hagar pales and flushes and tells me ‘not yet.’ Now what am I to think of this, Hagar? _why_ not yet, do you not love me, will not my love make you happy?”