dsome. Notably when
self-consciousness is quite absent, and some absorbing thought gives
sentiment to the face, and grace and power to the figure. It was so at
this moment with Maria, who stood gazing before her, the light from
above falling artistically on her glossy hair and tall, elegant
figure. At the sound of my footsteps she started, and the colour
flooded her face as I came up to her. She sank on to a seat close by,
as if too much agitated to stand.

"I have something I want to say to you," said I, stooping over her,
and speaking in my gentlest voice. "May I say it?"

She moved her lips as if trying to speak, but there was no sound, and
she just nodded her head, which then drooped so that I could hardly
see her face.

"We have known each other since we were children," I began.

"Yes, Regie dear," murmured Maria.

"We were always very good friends, I think," continued I.

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"Childhood was a very happy time," said I, sentimentally.

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"But we can't be children for ever," I continued.

"Oh, no, Regie dear."

"Please take what I am going to say kindly, cousin, whatever you may
think of it."

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"I hope I may truthfully say that your happiness is, as it ought to
be, my chief aim in the matter."

Maria's response was inaudible.

"It's no good beating about the bush," said I, desperately clothing my
sentiments in slang, after the manner of my age; "the fellow who gets
you for a wife, Maria, must be uncommonly fortunate, and I hope that
with a good husband, who made your wishes his first consideration, you
would not be unhappy in married life yourself."

Lower and lower went her head, but still she was silent.

"You say nothing," I went on. "Probably I am altogether wrong, and you
are too kind-hearted to tell me I am an impertinent puppy. It is
Dacrefield--the place only--that you honour with your regard. You have
no affection for--"

Maria did not let me finish this sentence. She put up her hands to
stop me, and seemed as if she wished to speak; but after one pitiful
glance she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. I am sure I
have read somewhere that when a woman weeps she is won. So Maria was
mine. I had a grim feeling about it which I cannot describe. "I hope
the governor will be satisfied now," was my thought.

However, there is nothing I hate more than to see a woman cry. To be
the means of making her cry is intoler