"It is no use deceiving myself. I am going to be married and I _hate_ the thought, and how I have been dragged into it I scarcely know. Sometimes I think I should never have yielded.... How oddly one drifts into things! ... And Sir Francis is so infatuated, and it seemed no use saying 'No.' I wish he were not so jealous. I can't understand the feeling myself. I wonder what it's like? Not pleasant by any means, if I am to judge by my future lord and master. Will he be my master, I wonder? How I should hate to be ordered about, and kept in check, and ruled! Mamma is bad enough, in all conscience; but, still, I have managed to get my own way with her, pretty often. How she has badgered me about this marriage, and what a desperate hurry they have been in to get it off! Heigho! only a month since I bartered my liberty for--for--ahem!--shall I go over all 'the good gifts that crown me queen' of this much-sought-after baronet? Unencumbered estates, magnificent income, ancient family--pooh! how sickening it is! After all, what do I care for these things? One comfort is, I go to him heart-whole. No sentiments in the background, no lovers to moan and fret over. I wonder if I am really cold-hearted, or if I never shall fall in love? Gracious! what am I saying? That folly must be over after 11.30 to-day. I suppose the nearest approach to it was that boy-and-girl romance with Keith. Poor old Keith! What a nice boy he was, and what a dare-devil, impetuous, headstrong sort of fellow! No milk-and-water lover he--a regular torrent of impetuosity, bearing one along, whether one would or no. I suppose he has forgotten me though, and no wonder. How rude mamma was to him, and how delighted when he turned his back on the Old World and went off to the New! I suppose if I ever see him again he will be a regular Yankee, and talk like that dreadful woman, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, as she calls herself. And she will be at the breakfast, after all! Mamma _would_ ask her. Heavens! how she does worship money! But I suppose that comes of having had so little all her life." A little sleepy yawn comes in here, then the pretty head turns away from the sunlight, and nestles itself among the pillows again. But it is no use to woo sleep any longer. The eyes remain open, and the brain is busy with thoughts, until at eight o'clock a knock at the door is followed by the entrance of a maid, with hot water and letters. The girl sits up and stretches out her hands for the latter--just two. She holds them a moment, and looks hesitatingly at the superscription. "The last time I shall see that name," she murmurs, half aloud, as she reads the "Miss Douglas" that has been her nomenclature for twenty years of her life. "Heigho! it makes me sad to think of it, after all.... Yes, Jane, draw up the blind. A fine morning? Well, of course, I can see that. No, I don't want anything more. You can go till I ring."