Lady Eliza walked on in silence, longing to unburden her mind to her companion, and shrinking from the mention of Gilbert’s name. He thought her dull company, and perhaps a little out of temper, and he was not inclined to go up to the house. She stood, as he prepared to remount his horse, laying an ungloved hand upon the shining neck of the black; his allusion to its beauty had made her doubly and trebly careful of it. Had he noticed her act, with its little bit of feminine vanity, he might have thought it ridiculous; but it was so natural--a little green sprig from stunted nature which had flowered out of season. ‘Fullarton, Gilbert Speid has proposed to Cecilia,’ she said. ‘And do you expect me to be astonished?’ he inquired, pausing with his foot in the stirrup-iron. ‘It came like a thunder-clap; I never thought of it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Pshaw, Eliza! Why, I told Crauford long ago that he had a pretty formidable rival in him,’ said he, from the saddle. ‘She wants to marry him,’ said Lady Eliza, looking up at him, and restraining the quivering of her lips with an effort. ‘Well, if she won’t take Crauford, she had better take him; he’ll be the more interesting husband of the two. Good-night, my lady.’ She went back to the house, her heart like lead, her excitement calmed into dull misery. Fullarton did not understand, and, while she was thankful that he did not, the fact hurt her in an unreasonable way. The evening was a very quiet one, for, as neither of the two women could speak of what she felt, both took refuge in silence. It was the first shadow that had come between them, and that thought added to the weight of Lady Eliza’s grief. She sat in the deep window-seat, looking out at the long light which makes northern summer nights so short, seeming to notice nothing that went on in the room. The sight was torture to Cecilia, for a certain protectiveness which mingled with her love for her aunt made her feel as though she had wounded some trusting child to death. Her anticipations of a few hours ago had been so different from the reality she had found, and she could not bear to think of her lover sitting in his solitary home, happy in the false belief that all was well. If ever she had seen happiness on a human face, she had seen it on his as they parted. To-morrow Lady Eliza would receive his letter. ‘Cecilia,’ she said, turning suddenly towards the girl, ‘I said things I did not mean to you to-day; God knows I did not mean them. You must forgive me because I am almost beside myself to-night. You don’t understand, child, and you never will. Oh, Cecilia, life has gone so hard with me! I am a miserable old woman with rancour in her heart, who has made a sorry business of this world; but it is not my fault--it is not all my fault--and it shall never divide you from me. But have patience with me, darling; my trouble is so great.’ As they parted for the night, she looked back from the threshold of her room.