te as much
charmed by her utter indifference and haughty acceptance of their
homage as by her marvelous beauty.

At times Beatrice felt sure that Lord Airlie loved her; then a sudden
fit of timidity would seize her young lover, and again she would doubt
it. One thing she never doubted--her own love for him. If her dreams
were all false, and he never asked her to be his wife, she said to
herself that she would never be the wife of any other man.

The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at times--not very
often, and never with any great fear or apprehension. It seemed to her
more like a dark, disagreeable dream than a reality. Could it be
possible that she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, noble
father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, could ever have been so mad
or so foolish? The very remembrance of it made the beautiful face
flush crimson. She could not endure the thought, and always drove it
hastily from her.

The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two years had nearly
passed, yet she was not afraid. He might never return, he might forget
her, although, remembering his looks and words, that, she feared, could
not be.

If he went to Seabay--if he went to the Elms, it was not probable that
he would ever discover her whereabouts, or follow her to claim the
fulfillment of her absurd promise. At the very worst, if he discovered
that she was Lord Earle's daughter, she believed that her rank and
position would dazzle and frighten him. Rarely as those thoughts came
to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she considered them a
dear price for the little novelty and excitement that had broken the
dead level calm of life at the Elms.

Lord Airlie, debating within himself whether he should risk, during the
whirl and turmoil of the London season, the question upon which the
happiness of his life depended, decided that he would wait until Lord
Earle returned to Earlescourt, and follow him there.

The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and apple blossoms had all
died away; the corn waved in the fields, ripe and golden; the hay was
all gathered in; the orchards were all filled with fruit. The
fifteenth of July--the day that in her heart Beatrice Earle had half
feared--was past and gone. She had been nervous and half frightened
when it came, starting and turning deathly pale at the sound of the
bell or of rapid footsteps. She laughed at herself when the day ended.
How was it