Such were Ellen's feelings as she was roused by the voice of L'Estrange asking her to take a walk in the country, as the day had broken off fine. She felt vexed at the interruption, and hastily answered she could not--she had a headache, and wished to remain quiet. Her heart smote her as she heard him turn away with mournful step, and the word quivered on her lips which recalled him--but pride smothered the unborn sound; the old weakness returned, and she allowed her dream to run on instead of awaking herself--shaking off the fatal habit--and rising a real woman to combat the trials of life. The conversation during breakfast had awakened an old train of thought. Often had she been told she was only fit for a peeress--and now within ten miles of her was one who could raise her to the height of her ambition--young, rich, handsome. Could she catch his eye? could she make a conquest of the young Earl's heart? She looked at herself in the mirror, Pride whispered she _could_! But then came a chilling thought--L'Estrange. For nearly a year had he paid her the most untiring homage. Pleased at first, flattered by her powers, she had led him on--led him on till he had proposed for her hand--been accepted too--ha! dreadful truth, accepted! She had loved him once--but now--did she love him? no, no, he had her friendship--he had her affection--but not her love! And who was her love? The phantom of her mind's creation, the unreal knight of her dreams. And now the phantom of her imagination was near, she had never seen him even--but L'Estrange said he was splendidly handsome! He knew him too--why should not she? Would he come up to her model? Could she make the conquest? Something whispered "Yes." But she was engaged--again that voice said, "Never mind." Was this her evil genius? Then were sown the seeds of that blight doomed to destroy a plant bards have called "too frail to bloom below." Ellen was a well-brought-up girl, and her better thoughts recoiled from the very idea of thus jilting her first love. She was a sensible girl, and her better senses told her how foolish were her thoughts. Perhaps the Earl might not even look at her, if she saw him; perhaps, and still more likely, she might never see him; perhaps he might have some other mistress of his heart. On the other hand L'Estrange loved her as his own soul; she knew and felt that: he had no other lady of his affections, she knew that; and here, in spite of all, she was going to chance the reality for the shadow--chance all on a wild throw, and perhaps--most probably--lose both. So spoke the still, small voice within; but pride, false pride choked its utterances, drowned its whispers, and in her heart she resolved to make the trial, and as if to aid her in her thoughts came the lines into her memory-- "He either rates his life too high, Or his deserts too small, Who fears to cast in on the die To win, or lose, it all."