She looked up again, but her eyes fell under his once more, for she read there something which gave her no pleasure, although it occasioned her surprise. The idea for the first time flashed across her, that he loved her, and, quick as thought can go, her mind took in at once all the probable consequences of such a circumstance; the pain and disappointment to him, the interrupted intercourse, the loss to their society, which his absence would occasion, what Maurice would think, and whether he would wish it either one way or the other. The silence was not of more than a minute’s duration, but her mind traveled far and fast during that interval. One idea did not occur to her; that was the possibility of marrying Mr. Huyton; she did not raise the question. His thoughts had not gone so far, they were all concentrated round her, watching the changing color of her cheeks, and the long eye-lashes which rested on them. He was partly thinking how pretty she was, partly wondering what she was feeling. Of course he had to speak again. “Hilary, I love you. Ever since the moment when I suddenly saw you standing alone in the forest, like some unearthly being, like one of those angels of whom you are so fond of talking, you, and you only, have filled my heart. I have lived for you, worked for you, thought of you all day, dreamed of you at night, watched your progress to perfection with an intenseness of admiration you little guessed; dwelt on your image when absent, loved your very shadow, doted on you with a heart which never, never loved before.” “Hush! Mr. Huyton,” said she, gravely; “these are wild words, not language for one human creature to use to another; and to _me_, if I did not know you too well, I should think you meant to mock me; do not talk so!” “Mock you! praise can not come near your merits; words are too cold; in that sense they may be unfit to be addressed to you; as any attempt to paint a rainbow is mockery. But my meaning is most sincere, earnest, true. I love you!” He held her hand in both of his, and looked in her face with all the eloquence of which his very handsome eyes were capable; but she shook her head. “I do not love you, Mr. Huyton――at least, not in that way;” ending her sentence abruptly, and with crimson cheeks, which made him think her mistaken. “You do not _hate_ me?” said he, perseveringly detaining the hand she endeavored to withdraw; “tell me, am I disagreeable to you?” “Hate you! oh, no; you are so good and kind to me and mine; and Maurice loves you so, I could not _hate_ you; but I am so sorry, so very sorry, that you can not think of me as I do of you; liking, wishing well to, esteeming one another, being friends and no more.”