But even after Lucian had been at the manor a fortnight, and daily in the society of Diana, he spoke no word of love. Seeing how beautiful she was, and how dowered with lands and rents and horses, he began to ask himself whether it was not rather a presumption on his part to ask her to share his life. He had only three hundred a year--six pounds a week--and a profession in which, as yet, he had not succeeded; so he could offer her very little in exchange for her beauty, wealth, and position. The poor lover became quite pale with fruitless longing, and his spirits fell so low that good Miss Priscilla one day drew him aside to ask about his health. "For," said she, "if you are ill in body, Mr. Denzil, I know of some remedies--old woman's medicines you will call them, no doubt--which, with the blessing of God, may do you good." "Thank you, Miss Barbar, but I am not ill in body--worse luck!" and Lucian sighed. "Why worse luck, Mr. Denzil?" said the old lady severely. "That is an ungrateful speech to Providence." "I would rather be ill in body than ill in mind," explained Denzil, blushing, for in some ways he was younger than his years. "And are you ill in mind?" asked Miss Priscilla, with a twinkle in her eyes. "Alas! yes. Can you cure me?" "No. For that cure I shall hand you over to Diana." "Miss Priscilla!" And Lucian coloured again, this time with vexation. "Oh, Mr. Denzil," laughed the governess, "because I am old you must not imagine that I am blind. I see that you love Diana." "Better than my life!" cried the devoted lover with much fervour. "Of course! That is the usual romantic answer to make. Well, why do you not tell Diana so, with any pretty additions your fancy suggests?" "She might not listen to me," said this doubting lover dolefully. "Very true," replied his consoler. "On the other hand, she might. Besides, Mr. Denzil, however much the world may have altered since my youth, I have yet to learn that it is the lady's part to propose to the gentleman." "But, Miss Barbar, I am poor!" "What of that? Diana is rich." "Don't I know it? For that very reason I hesitate to ask her." "Because you are afraid of being called a fortune-hunter, I suppose," said the old lady drily. "That shows a lack of moral courage which is not worthy of you, Mr. Denzil. Take an old woman's advice, young man, and put your fortunes to the test. Remember Montrose's advice in the song." "You approve of my marrying Diana--I mean Miss Vrain?" "From what I have seen of you, and from what Diana has told me about you, I could wish her no better husband. Poor girl! After the tragical death of her father, and her wretched life with that American woman, she deserves a happy future." "And do you think--do you really think that she--that she--would be happy with--with me?" stammered Lucian, hardly daring to believe Miss Priscilla, whose acquaintance with him seemed too recent to warrant such trust. The wise old woman laughed and nodded.