Geoff was so rapt in his own thoughts that he did not see for some time the beckonings and signals that were coming to him from a carriage drawn up on the road to which the path descended, along which he was moving so gently. When his attention was at last caught, he saw it was his Cousin Mary, leaning half out of the window in her eagerness. “Give your horse to the footman and come in here--I have so much to say to you,” she said. But when he had done as she told him and taken his seat beside her, Lady Stanton kept looking at her young cousin. “What is it?” she said; “you keep on smiling, and there is a little drowsy, dreamy, intoxicated air about you; what has happened, Geoff?” “Nothing; and it is unkind to say I look intoxicated. Could you not find a prettier word?” “I believe you are really, really!--Geoff, I think I know what it means, and I hope it is somebody very nice. Tell me, who is she?” “This is strange,” said Geoff; “indeed, it is true, I have been visiting a lady; but she is only twelve years old,” he said, turning to her with a vivid blush. “Oh, Geoff!” Mary’s brow contracted, “you do not mean _that_ little girl?” “Why shouldn’t I mean her? I will make you my confessor, Cousin Mary. I don’t think. I shall ever marry any one but little Lily. Of course she is very little, and when she is grown up she will probably have nothing to say to me; but I shall never care for any one else. Why should you shake your head? I never saw any one like her,” said Geoff, growing solemn, and shaking off his blush as he saw himself opposed. “Oh, Geoff!” Mary shook her head and contracted her beautiful brow, “I do not think anything good can come out of that family; but I must not speak. I am jealous, I suppose. How did you know I did not want you for Annie or Fanny?” she went on with a smile that was a little strained and fictitious; for Mary knew very well that she was jealous, but not for Annie, or Fanny, or Geoff. “Hush,” he said, “I loved you before Lily, but you could not have me; it is Lily, failing you. If you could but have seen her just now! The Squire is lying between life and death, and Miss Musgrave, who was so good to her, is with him night and day, and poor little Lily is so lonely and frightened. She looks at me with her little lip all quivering, and says, ‘Papa! I want papa.’” Geoff almost cried himself to recollect her piteous tone, and the tears came to Mary’s eyes. “Ah! if she takes after _him_, Geoff! but that is just what I want to talk to you about. I have done something that you may think rash. I have spoken to Sir Henry. He is--well, he has his faults like the rest of us--but he is just; he would not do a wrong thing. I told him that you had found out something----” “What did he say?” cried Geoff, breathless, for Lady Stanton made a sudden pause.