In the two days during which I was denied sight of her my love for Lilian Holt was fast ripening into a passion--which absence only seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of common faces--such as those I observed in Swampville--did something towards heightening my admiration. There was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart's inclinings. To an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south--the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins--there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. Additional elements of attraction may have been: the _mise en scene_ that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. All these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. Therefore, on the morning of the third day, as I mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of Holt's clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. Occupied with sweet love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. I had formed no plan for colonising--neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the "improvement" I had twice purchased. Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing--and share with me the disputed land. Welcome should I make him, on one condition--the condition of becoming his guest--constant or occasional--in either way, so long as I might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart's devotion. Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as I entered upon my second journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. But my heart was in no unison with such an end. It recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand--_the errand of love_. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A RED-SKINNED SIBYL.