His quick eye and his experience noted all these symptoms of the small way he had made in her favour. “Yet,” said he to himself, “she will fall far more easily into my mesh than Helen Grahame. She is so pure, so guileless, so innocent of the world’s ways, that she is without suspicion--that best defence for woman against man’s art. My heart now aches to gain her. She must be mine, my wife be it--but she shall be mine!” He had at his departure, informed Wilton that he should take advantage of his friendly invitation, and he hoped that his occasional visits would not be deemed intrusive. The warmth with which old Wilton responded to this suggestion by repeating his desire that he would frequently test his hospitality, removed any hesitation he might have in again presenting himself there without a special invitation, and he determined quickly to avail himself of an opening so eminently favourable to his design to lay siege to Flora’s heart. Somehow, the interruption caused by these visitors seemed to render the remaining part of the day less cheerful and happy than it had commenced. Old Wilton sat in his easy chair, plunged in deep thought. Colonel Mires, though full of rumination, took care to prevent a repetition of Hal and Flora’s _tête-à-tête_, by joining them. Flora occasionally appeared abstracted, and Hal wore an expression upon his face very much as if his visions of the future were clouded and sad. As the Colonel did not, and would not, shift his quarters, the conversation grew common-place until at length it became absolutely irksome to Hal, and he rose to depart. Flora fancied that, as he bade her farewell, his tone was cold, and she missed the pressure of his hand. She knew, too, his eye was averted, and he lingered not as usual upon the threshold of the door, but he went away and never looked back to meet the gaze she directed to him--and which meant to say “adieu,” with an expression she could not trust to her words nor to her soft fingers--but he looked not back once--no, not once! Yet, when without the house, he directed his steps to the nearest entry to the park, and paused not until he gained a spot, where he could look upon the lighted window of the room in which he knew she sat, thinking, perhaps, of the gentleman who had that day been first presented to her, and was shortly to be little else than a constant companion. “Oh, Flora, dearest!” he murmured, compressing his hands tightly, “it was a dream--a happy, happy dream! I wake to misery. You can never, never be mine; it would be only mad presumption to entertain longer a hope so blissful--oh, so very blissful! You will wed some one higher, nobler than myself, for you are of proud and high descent, and I but humbly born. If in this your happiness be secured, I love you far, far too well to seek or wish a change. I can only hope and pray that he who wins you may love you as truly, as fondly, as devotedly as I do.”