Perhaps, though she was a woman grown, she was not herself quite old enough to appreciate the great advantage it is to any girl to stamp her image upon the heart of the man she loves while the wax is yet soft and undefaced by the half worn-out marks of many shallow dies; perhaps she did not know what a blessing it is to be able to really _love_ a man at all, young, middle-aged, or old. Many women wait till they cannot love without shame to make that discovery. Perhaps she forgot that Ernest’s youth was a fault which would mend day by day, and he had abilities, which, if she would consent to inspire them, might lead him to great things. At any rate, two facts remained in her mind after much thinking: she loved him with all her heart, and she was ashamed of it. But as yet she could not make up her mind to any fixed course. It would have been easy to crush poor Ernest, to tell him that his pretensions were ridiculous, to send him away, or to go away herself, and so to make an end of a position that she felt was getting absurd, and which we may be sure her elder sister Florence did nothing to make more pleasant. But she could not do it; that was the long and short of the matter. The idea of living without Ernest made her feel cold all over; it seemed to her that the only hours that she really did live were the hours which they spent together, and that when he went away he took her heart with him. No, she could not make up her mind to that; the thought was too cruel. Then there was the other alternative—to encourage him a little and become engaged to him, to brave everything for his sake. But as yet she could not make up her mind to that either. Eva Ceswick was very loving, very sweet, and very good, but she did not possess a determined mind. CHAPTER XII. DEEPER YET While Ernest was wooing and Eva doubting, Time, whose interest in earthly affairs is that of the sickle in the growing crop, went on his way as usual. The end of August came, as it has come so many thousand times since this globe gave its first turn in space, as it will come for many thousand times more, till at last, its appointed course run out, the world darkens, quivers, and grows still; and, behold! Ernest was still wooing, Eva still doubting. One evening—it was a very beautiful evening—this pair were walking together on the sea-shore. Whether they met by appointment or by accident does not matter; they did meet, and there they were, strolling along together, as fully charged with intense feeling as a thunder-cloud with electricity, and almost as quiet. The storm had not yet burst. To listen to the talk of these two, they might have met for the first time yesterday. It was chiefly about the weather.