"But, my Chrystal, one--one more embrace!" and Christobelle was encircled again in the arms of the best and dearest of human beings. She flew from his embrace to the sanctuary of her own apartment, and her first movement was prayer. She prayed for humility; she prayed for strength to bear her load of happiness; and she prayed that she might not love the creature beyond the Creator. When Christobelle rose from her knees, she sat down to think upon all these things. Sir John and Lady Wetheral were at the breakfast-table, when Christobelle descended the second time. She did not once meet her lover's eye, for she could not endure its brightness; but her bosom had cast its load of sorrow, and her thoughts danced in the beams of a new happiness. Lady Wetheral was pleased by her appearance. "My dear Bell, that little headache was a _tour de jongle_ to get rid of us all. Your dreams were pleasant, for your eyes sparkle, and you look most amusingly demure." Christobelle cast her eyes upon the ground; a deep and most distressing suffusion crimsoned her face. "Perhaps," continued her ladyship, "your gay dreams may have prognosticated good. I have also my dream. I am dreaming that friends from Clanmoray will call to-day." Christobelle was silent. She knew her mother dreamt not of the blow which awaited her. She knew her ladyship did not dream of her attachment to Sir John Spottiswoode. She could not awaken her at that moment to the fallacy of her hopes, neither could she lend herself to deception. She was aware her mother's ambitious wishes believed her young heart unable to contend against a dukedom, and that her fear of Sir John Spottiswoode had ceased from the morning of Lord Farnborough's visit. She had then chatted to his lordship, in the full flow of happy spirits, and her mother's ambition had "o'ertopped" its meaning. She could not lead her into deeper error. Christobelle's appetite was gone, and she scarcely touched the small French roll which lay upon her plate. She had eaten and drank in sorrow, though the meal did not afford nourishment; but, in joy, the very sight of food became loathsome. It appeared to Christobelle's mind, that Sir John Spottiswoode's love--his expressed love--was intellectual food, sufficient for many days; that her spirit would renew under its blessed influence, and that creature-comforts suited only the labourer and the hireling. It was impossible to remain long at the breakfast-table. She felt the triumphant glance of her lover was upon her, and her heart longed for solitude, to question itself again upon its sudden happiness. She wanted to ask herself, over and over, if it was really true that she was loved by Sir John Spottiswoode--if it was really true that her affections were returned, and that she was happy?