It was easy enough, so Lord Carthew found, to win Lady Cranstoun’s approval of the match. Seating himself near her sofa, he told her in a few well-chosen words of his love for her daughter, and the ruse he had practised in pleading his cause in his friend’s name. “I can never understand my dear Stella’s extraordinary objections against wealth and position!” exclaimed Lady Cranstoun. “For my part I am delighted about the whole affair. I thought from the moment when I first saw you that you had the Douglas eyes. Do you know, with her strange opinions, I have always been nervous as to whom Stella would marry? She is so utterly unlike ordinary girls, you see, and I am the more relieved that it has all turned out so well.” “You really think she will have me, then?” “Certainly I do,” returned Lady Cranstoun, opening her pale blue eyes in surprise. “Of course, as she says, she has not known you long enough to love you; but she has a very high regard for you, and you seem to have similar tastes. She even--I hope I am not betraying her confidence--but she even asked me if I should like to go for a voyage with you after you were married, and drew a most charming picture of the deck of a ship with all of us assembled there.” A faint color came into the poor lady’s face as she spoke. The prospect of leaving the Chase, and her husband’s cold, tyrannical dislike, seemed to momentarily restore her lost youth and health. Lord Carthew was delighted at her encouraging words. “There is no breach of confidence,” he said. “Your daughter said as much to me. I think I may consider myself as the happiest man in England at this moment.” Meanwhile, under the trees of the same shrubbery where her grandfather, Hiram Carewe, was shot down and murdered nineteen years before, Stella Cranstoun walked, with feet that seemed hardly to touch the ground, her thoughts absorbed by Hilary. She would not think of the future. The fact that he loved her should be enough for her for one happy day at least, until she could hear from him. Turning into a fresh glade, where the branches overarched above her, she came unexpectedly face to face with her father. The flush died from her cheeks, the light from her eyes. She bowed coldly and would have passed on, when he barred her progress with his arm. “Wait!” he said. “I have something to ask you. What is this about a proposal of marriage made to you this morning by a Mr. Hilary Pritchard?” She looked at him scornfully. She knew quite well that he was trying to deceive her. “You have been misinformed,” she said. “The gentleman who asked me to marry him was Viscount Carthew.” “And what was your answer?” “I have not yet given it. But it will most certainly be ‘No!’” CHAPTER VIII. AN OLD FRIEND. Father and daughter faced each other under the delicate spring foliage, both pale, set, and determined. Sir Philip spoke first.