Perdita was dressed in a more modest and, to speak truly, in a more delicate manner than on either of the former occasions when Charles had seen her. A plain morning gown, made with a high corsage, set off her fine figure, without affording even a glimpse of the charms the full proportions of which its shape developed. Her hair was arranged in plain bands; and there was altogether an appearance of so much innocence, candour, and maiden reserve in her demeanour, that it seemed to Charles as if he now beheld in her some new phasis of her wondrous beauty. Hastening forward to meet her, he caught her in his arms and covered her lips, her cheeks, and her brow with kisses: for--whether it were imagination or reality we know not--but she appeared to be far more lovely than ever in his eyes. “Dearest--dearest Perdita!” he exclaimed,forgetting at that moment all and every thing in the world save the object of his adoration. “Charles--my lord--how am I to call you henceforth?” she murmured, in that soft, musical tone which flowed like the harmony of the spheres in unto the very soul. “Am I not _Charles_ to you, dear girl?” he demanded, looking at her tenderly and half reproachfully: then, conducting her to a seat, and placing himself near her, he added, “I have had a long interview with your mother, Perdita; and from all that I could gather, she has no opposition to offer to our love.” “I know it,” responded the girl, casting down her eyes with a modesty so admirably assumed that it would have deceived the most experienced individual. “And are you well satisfied that she has thus proved favourable to our hopes?” “Will you always seem to doubt my affection?” demanded the young man, in an impassioned tone: “will you ever appear to believe that I am so volatile--so fickle--so inconstant, as to regret to-day a step that I took yesterday?” “Pardon me, Charles--pardon me,” said Perdita, looking up into his face with an expression of the most charming _naiveté_: “but my mother heard a rumour--and yet it might be unfounded----” “Speak--speak, Perdita!” cried the young man, impatiently. “A rumour to the effect that you were looked upon as the future husband of Lady Frances Ellingham,” added Perdita, in a tremulous tone, as if scarcely daring to give utterance to the jealous suspicion that the words implied. Charles Hatfield became suddenly red as scarlet; and Perdita burst into tears.