The golden beams of the setting sun that were shining through the foliage of the shade trees, making their leaves glisten like emeralds, and falling upon the piazza, were somewhat intercepted by the figure of Lieutenant Gusty as he walked up and down the piazza, ruminating to this effect, “Shall I now, or shall I not? I wonder if it is too early. I have known her only a short time, it is true, but then, how dearly I love her, and how wisely, the regard of my excellent sister proves. I am going away in a day, to stay three years; if I don’t speak now some one else may speak before I have another chance.” The entrance of Sophie from the house decided him by inspiring a sudden impulse. She had come out, and not seeing him, walked slowly up to the further end of the piazza, hung her head over the railing, and remained fixed in that attitude. Gusty walked rapidly up to her, and then back, and then up again, and then back. The third time approaching her, he said, while standing behind her,— “_Hem!_ Sophie, you _know_ you rather like me! and _I_ know it too, because Emily says so. And _I_, Sophie—well, never mind about me! So, Sophie, when I come back from sea again in three years from this, will you—will you—will you _have_ me? Now consider the circumstances, and don’t say, my own dear Sophie, that my proposal is _too soon_.” “_It is too late—too late_, dear Gusty,” she said, turning round; her eyes were fixed and despairing. “Too late,” he echoed, looking stupidly at her. “Too late,” she repeated; “I am betrothed. Even your sister—_my_ dear sister Emily, thinks that there is no escape _now_. I have just had a conversation with her.” “You—you are betrothed—to—to _whom_?” “You surely guess—to Mr. Withers.” He walked up and down the piazza with folded arms, chin bowed upon his bosom, eyes bent to the ground. At last he paused before her—bashfulness was gone now. “Look at me, Sophie! oh, my soul’s love, look at me!” She raised her eyes to his fine countenance—he _had_ a fine countenance. Curls black, silky, and shining, clustered around a brow fair, round, and polished as a woman’s—his dark eyes, now full of Heaven’s own love and wisdom, were bent upon hers. “My own loved sister—my own heart’s darling, _we_ are betrothed. Oh, believe it, Sophie!—believe it! _We_ are betrothed, Sophie! Listen! You have never loved before?” “_Never_, Gusty!”