“You need not agitate yourself so, my dear little Dora,” said he, smiling graciously, for Dora ended by a fit of tears; “there is no occasion to be unhappy, I am sure; you do quite right to accept Mr. Huyton’s proposal; but although I am ready to be your messenger, we must not forget propriety and honor in the message. Desirable as the connection is, we need not rush at it, as if we thought ourselves receiving, and not bestowing a compliment. You must allow me to alter the words, although not the meaning of your answer.” “As you please, sir,” said Dora, faintly; rebellious recollections were rising in her heart; and she had a struggle at that moment not to shriek out a negative. “I shall go and speak to Mr. Huyton,” said the father, quite unconscious of his daughter’s agitation. She was left alone, and burying her face in the cushions, she gave way to the bitterest tears. She was insensible to outward objects; memory had gone back to the sunny days at Hurstdene, or tortured her with the happy hours so recently spent on board the _Erratic_; she sobbed and trembled violently, then thought again of the past, and thought was followed by fresh agitation. In this state she was lying when her hand was touched by some one, and starting up, she saw Charles Huyton beside her. She felt guilty, and hurriedly tried to hide her emotion and drive away her tears; could she have seen into his heart, she would have discovered that these accompaniments to their betrothal were but too suitable and fitting. She did glance at his face, and saw how little his eyes wore the expression she thought that love should wear. They were gloomy, sad, full rather of harsh resolve than joyful hopes. An idea struck her suddenly. This abrupt proposal, this unhappy appearance, whence did they spring? Had he loved her long, did he really love her now? Was not Hilary the real object of his affections? Had this new resolve any thing to do with her marriage? It rushed through her mind that it was despair, not love, which prompted him, and that though she might now accept his hand, he would himself, when the moment of pique was over, be the first to regret this step, and, perhaps, would not only be ready to cancel the engagement, but would be glad to resign her to another. She dried her eyes; he cleared his brow; he spoke of love, esteem, honor; she listened, blushing, and faltered out an acquiescence, which he read her too correctly not to see was half reluctant. But the reluctance neither surprised nor distressed him. He knew he had a rival to supplant, and it would have been but half a triumph to have had her accept him readily. More decided opposition would have been not unwelcome. But he knew her to be light and volatile; her sailor-lover’s feelings were of a firmer texture, and so were his sister’s also, and these were the hearts he sought to wound.