“I say no more. Those are the alternatives, sir. Once your choice is made, there shall be no going back upon it: Love, or life:—if you decline to choose, you are pretty certain to lose both.—Well, sir, take a few minutes to think upon it. I see these ladies are eager to hear your decision, but for once you may leave them to their impatience.” Everell was not heedful of the ladies. Certain words were echoing in his mind, each accompanied by a rush of the ideas attached to it: life—love—friends—joyous days and merry nights—but never to see her again!—to fly from this neighbourhood, from the garden.—Ah, the dear garden! To be with the adored one for seven days—blissful days, with her by his side, her hand in his, her eyes softening to his, her voice— “Sir, could you doubt a moment?” said the young lover. “I choose her!—a week with her! I hold you to your word—I’ll not shirk mine when the time comes.” “Bravo! I knew it!” cried Lady Strange, clapping her hands. “Lady Strange, I owe you five guineas,” said Foxwell, gallantly. “Mr. Everell, at this hour a week hence—ten o’clock, shall we call it?—you are my prisoner.” He rang the bell, and Caleb entered. “Cut this gentleman’s cords—there has been a mistake. And nothing is to be said of his presence here, or of what has occurred to-night—nay, I’ll give orders separately to all the servants.” He waited till Everell stood entirely freed; he then sent a message to Miss Foxwell, asking her to come to the drawing-room if she had not yet retired. “I take it,” he explained to Everell, when Caleb had left the room, “you would have her know at once how matters have fallen out—as far as you would have her know at all for the present—that you are to be our guest for awhile, at least.” “Certainly,—but”—and here Everell turned pale—“she must not know the condition.” “I agree with you there,” said Foxwell, smiling. “For the comfort of both of us, she had best not know—till afterward, at least.” “Afterward!” echoed Everell; “and what will be her feelings then? I hadn’t thought of that.” “We have all overlooked that, I own. We have thought only of you and your feelings. But you need not be dismayed—the most devoted of women are not inconsolable.” “’Tis not that I think she loves me much; but she is of so tender a nature, when she learns the price I shall have paid—yet how could I have chosen otherwise, even considering her feelings?—what would she have thought, had I preferred to renounce her? Or suppose I had declined to choose?”