Lottie stood still, arrested in her progress, throwing a wondering look upon him. What could he want with her? Her first glance was simple surprise--her second--Was it possible he could mean _that_?--could he be bold enough, rash enough? Next moment she blushed for her own folly. To be afraid of young Purcell! That was foolishness indeed. She stood still there, one foot put out to go on, her basket in her hand. “Please say what it is, Mr. Purcell. I have got something to do. I ought to be at home.” The morning is not the moment for a love tale. How much more congenial would have been the evening, the twilight, the subdued poetic hour, after the sun had disappeared, that great busybody who shows every imperfection, and is himself so perpetually moving on! Something to do was in every line of Lottie’s energetic figure. She had no time for lingering, nor wish to linger. “Please say what it is.” Only business should be treated in this summary way, not love. “Miss Despard,” said the young musician, whose limbs were trembling under him, “I wanted to say a great deal to you; it is very important--for me. Things are going well with me,” he added, with desperation, after a momentary pause. “I have been appointed to a church--a fine church--with a good instrument. They are to give me a good salary, and they say I can have as much teaching as I like. I shall be very well off.” “I am glad to hear you are so fortunate,” said Lottie. Her eyes were full of surprise, and for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in them. That he should waylay her to tell her this, seemed a curious piece of ostentation or folly. “I am very glad,” she repeated; “but you must forgive me if I have to hasten home, for I have a great many things to do.” “One moment,” he said, putting out his hand to stop her. “That was not all. The Signor thinks--you know the Signor, Miss Despard, there is not a better musician in the country--he thinks I will make progress. He thinks I may rise--as high as any one can rise in our profession. He tells me I may be a rich man yet before I die.” “Indeed, I hope all he says will come true,” said Lottie; “but why you should take the trouble to tell me----” Then suddenly she caught his eye, and stopped short, and blushed an angry red. She saw what was coming in a moment, which did not, however, prevent her from drawing herself up with a great deal of dignity, and adding, “I don’t know what you mean.” “Miss Despard,” he said with a gasp, “there is no comparison between me and you. But you are not so well off--not happy. They say--you know how people will talk--that there is something going to happen that will make you very uncomfortable.” “Stop!” she said, with an involuntary cry, half of anger, half of amazement. Then she laughed. “Do you want me to acknowledge that you are much better off than I am?” she said; “but there is no need to compare you with me.”