but that can all be settled if you will say that
you will receive her at the house.

I cannot finish my letter without saying one word for
myself. You know what my feelings have been, and I think
you know that they still are, and always must be, the
same. From almost the first moment that I saw you I have
loved you. When you refused me I was very unhappy; but
I thought I might still have a chance, and therefore I
resolved to try again. Then, when I heard that you were
engaged to Captain Aylmer, I was indeed broken-hearted. Of
course I could not be angry with you. I was not angry, but
I was simply broken-hearted. I found that I loved you so
much that I could not make myself happy without you. It
was all of no use, for I knew that you were to be married
to Captain Aylmer. I knew it, or thought that I knew it.
There was nothing to be done,--only I knew that I was
wretched. I suppose it is selfishness, but I felt, and
still feel, that unless I can have you for my wife, I
cannot be happy or care for anything. Now you are free
again,--free, I mean, from Captain Aylmer;--and how is it
possible that I should not again have a hope? Nothing but
your marriage or death could keep me from hoping.

I don't know much about the Aylmers. I know nothing of
what has made you quarrel with the people at Aylmer
Park;--nor do I want to know. To me you are once more that
Clara Amedroz with whom I used to walk in Belton Park,
with your hand free to be given wherever your heart can
go with it. While it is free I shall always ask for it.
I know that it is in many ways above my reach. I quite
understand that in education and habits of thinking you
are my superior. But nobody can love you better than I do.
I sometimes fancy that nobody could ever love you so well.
Mary thinks that I ought to allow a time to go by before
I say all this again;--but what is the use of keeping it
back? It seems to me to be more honest to tell you at once
that the only thing in the world for which I care one
straw is that you should be my wife.

Your most affectionate Cousin,

WILLIAM BELTON.

"Miss Belton is coming here, to the castle, in a fortnight," said
Clara that morning at breakfast. Both Colonel Askerton and his wife
were in the room, and she was addressing herself chiefly to the
former.

"Indeed, Miss Belton! And is he coming?" said Co