ess almost any
lady in the land. Of course you will follow the dictates of your
own heart, as I said; but I cannot myself fancy any greater good
fortune that could come in the way of a young woman than the honest
affections of such a man as this Ralph Newton." Then Sir Thomas
paused for some reply, but Mary had none ready for him. "Of course I
have no questions to ask," he said, and then again paused. But still
Mary did not speak. "I dare say he will be here before long, and I
hope that he may meet with a happy reception. I at least shall be
glad to see him, for I hold him in great honour. And as I look upon
marriage as the happiest lot for all women, and as I think that this
would be a happy marriage, I do hope,--I do hope-- But as I said
before, all that must be left to yourself. Mary, have you nothing to
say?"

"I trust, uncle, you are not tired of me."

"Tired of you! Certainly not. I have not been with you since you
have been here as much as I should have wished because,--indeed for
various reasons. But we all like you, and nobody wants to get rid of
you. But there is a way in which young ladies leave their own homes,
which is generally thought to be matter of congratulation. But, as I
said before, nobody shall press you."

"Dear uncle, I am so full of thanks to you for your kindness."

"But it is of course my duty as your guardian to tell you that in my
opinion this gentleman is entitled to your esteem."

After that Mary left him without another word, and taking her hat
and cloak as she passed through the hall went at once out into the
garden. It was a fine autumn morning, almost with a touch of summer
in it. We do not know here that special season which across the
Atlantic is called the Indian summer,--that last glow of the year's
warmth which always brings with it a half melancholy conviction of
the year's decay,--which in itself is so delightful, would be so
full of delight, were it not for the consciousness which it seems
to contain of being the immediate precursor of winter with all its
horrors. There is no sufficient constancy with us of the recurrence
of such a season, to make any special name needful. But now and
again there comes a day, when the winds of the equinox have lulled
themselves, and the chill of October rains have left the earth, and
the sun gives a genial, luxurious warmth, with no power to scorch,
with strength only to comfort. But here, as elsewhere, this luxury
is laden with melancho