Tuckham at Mount Laurels on a particular day she considered as of no
consequence whatever, and she said so, in response to a meaningless nod.
But Mr. Austin was obliged to return to work. She set her face homeward
with his immediately, and he looked pleased: he did not try to dissuade
her from accompanying him by affecting to think it a sacrifice: clearly
he knew that to be near him was her greatest delight.

Thus do we round the perilous headland called love by wooing a good man
for his friendship, and requiting him with faithful esteem for the grief
of an ill-fortuned passion of his youth!

Cecilia would not suffer her fancy to go very far in pursuit of the
secret of Mr. Austin's present feelings. Until she reached Mount Laurels
she barely examined her own. The sight of the house warned her instantly
that she must have a defence: and then, in desperation but with
perfect distinctness, she entertained the hope of hearing him speak the
protecting words which could not be broken through when wedded to her
consent.

If Mr. Austin had no intentions, it was at least strange that he did not
part from her in London.

He whose coming she dreaded had been made aware of the hour of her
return, as his card, with the pencilled line, 'Will call on the 17th,'
informed her. The 17th was the morrow.

After breakfast on the morning of the 17th Seymour Austin looked her
in the eyes longer than it is customary for ladies to have to submit to
keen inspection.

'Will you come into the library?' he said.

She went with him into the library.

Was it to speak of his anxiousness as to the state of her father's
health that he had led her there, and that he held her hand? He alarmed
her, and he pacified her alarm, yet bade her reflect on the matter,
saying that her father, like other fathers, would be more at peace upon
the establishment of his daughter. Mr. Austin remarked that the colonel
was troubled.

'Does he wish for my pledge never to marry without his approval? I will
give it,' said Cecilia.

'He would like you to undertake to marry the man of his choice.'
Cecilia's features hung on an expression equivalent to:--I could almost
do that.'

At the same time she felt it was not Seymour Austin's manner of
speaking. He seemed to be praising an unknown person--some gentleman who
was rough, but of solid promise and singular strength of character.

The house-bell rang. Believing that Beauchamp had now come, she showed a
painful ri