my own
desire, nearly the whole of the income of my fortune is devoted, for
years to come, to the paying off of his debts, and the money he contrives
to squander away in London is incomprehensible. But to return to Mr.
Hargrave. I was standing with Rachel beside the water, amusing the
laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with golden
catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park, mounted on
his costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet me. He
saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and modestly
delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he rode along. He
told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he was riding
that way, had desired him to call at the Manor and beg the pleasure of my
company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow.

'There is no one to meet but ourselves,' said he; 'but Esther is very
anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this
great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give her
the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at home
in our more humble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon's return shall render
this a little more conducive to your comfort.'

'She is very kind,' I answered, 'but I am not alone, you see;--and those
whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.'

'Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if
you refuse.'

I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but,
however, I promised to come.

'What a sweet evening this is!' observed he, looking round upon the sunny
park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and majestic
clumps of trees. 'And what a paradise you live in!'

'It is a lovely evening,' answered I; and I sighed to think how little I
had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale was
to me--how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether
Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a
half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if
I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.

'Not lately,' I replied.

'I thought not,' he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on
the ground.

'Are you not lately returned from London?' I asked.

'Only yesterday.'

'And did you see him there?'

'Yes--I saw him.'

'Was he well?'

'Yes--that is,' said he, with increasing hesitatio