It was in the month of September; I was wandering amidst the wooded walks upon her father's grounds. The rainbowed bronze of autumn lay upon the trees, deepening as it lay. The sun hung over the western hills; and the lark, after its summer silence, carolled over the heads of the last reapers of the season, to cheer their toil. A few solitary swallows twittered together, as if crying, "Come--come!" to summon them to a gathering and departure. The wood-pigeon cooed in the plantations, and as the twilight deepened, the plaintiveness of its strain increased. As I have said, I was then wandering in the wooded walks upon Colonel Mortimer's grounds, and my thoughts were far too deep for words. While I so wandered in lonely melancholy, my attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps approaching. I looked up, and Jessy Mortimer stood before me. I was too bashful to advance--too proud, too attached towards her, to retire. We stood as though an electric spark had stricken both. I trembled, and my eyes grew dim; but I saw the rose die upon her cheeks. I beheld her ready to fall upon the ground, and, half unconscious of what I did, I sprang forward, and my arm encircled her waist. "Jessy!--Miss Mortimer!" I cried. "Pardon me--speak to me." "Sir!" she exclaimed--"Roderic!" I approached her--I took her hand. We stood before each other in silence. She drew herself up--she fixed her eyes upon me. "Sir," she returned, "I will not pretend to misunderstand your meaning; but remember the difference that exists in our situations." "I remember it, Miss Mortimer--I do. I will remember it, Jessy. There _is_ a difference in our situations." I sprang from her--I thought I felt her hand detaining mine; and, as I rushed away, I heard her exclaiming, "Stay, Roderick! stay!" But wounded pride forbade me--it withheld me. I thought of my father's and of my mother's words--"Persevere! persevere!" And while I thought, I felt a something within, which whispered that I should one day speak to the daughter of Colonel Mortimer as her equal. As I rushed away, I turned round for a moment to exclaim, "Farewell, Jessy!--we shall meet again!" Me-thought, as I hurried onward, I heard the accents of broken-hearted agony following after me; and through all, and over all, her voice was there. But I would not, I could not return. It was better to feel the arrow in my soul, than to have a new one thrust into it. In a few days I took my departure towards London. I carried with me the letters of introduction which her father had given me. The broker to whom he recommended me was a Mr Stafford. He received me civilly, but at the same time most coldly, and pointing with his finger to the desk, said, "You will take your place there."