To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the opportunity of exhibiting his skill before some one who could appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever, even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof, the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper. “Ah! that’s my window,” said a low voice. His pencil slipped and made a thick stroke—he looked round, it was Violet. For the first time he looked into her eyes and met her face to face. He could not draw. His hand would not keep steady; he blamed it to the heat of the summer sun. Violet declared it was her fault. Mr Waldron seized the incomplete sketch, and insisted upon Mr Malet (the title, humble as it was, was pleasant to Aymer’s ears) returning to finish it next day. In his confusion Aymer somehow got away, and then remembered that the sketchbook he had left behind was full of drawings, and amongst them there were two that brought a flush to his brow as he thought of them. One was Violet on horseback; the other a profile of her face. He wished to return and claim his book, and yet he hesitated. A sweet uncertainty as to what she would think mastered him. He dared not venture back. The next day passed, and the next—still he did not go—a week, a fortnight. He could not summon up courage. Then came a note for “A. Malet, Esq”—that “Esq” subjected him to bitter ridicule from rude old Martin—from Mr Waldron, inquiring if he had been ill, and begging him to visit at The Place, according to promise. There was no escape. He went; and from that hour the intimacy increased and ripened till not a day passed without some part of it being spent with the Waldrons. Violet had seen her portrait in the sketchbook, but she said not a word. She made Aymer draw everything that took her fancy. Once he was bold enough to ask to sketch her hand. She blushed, and became all dignity; Aymer cowered. He was not bold enough. How could he be? With barely a shilling in his pocket, rough corduroy trousers, an old battered hat, a black coat almost green from long exposure to sun and rain;—after years of ridicule and jeering how could he face her? His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and over-sensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass and obtain her love, when it was his already.