g
of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had
been before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forth
accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close
beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by the
feeling that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe her.
But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were different
from hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the
probability of their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy.
Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she
suspected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away from the
sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine.

'Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,' said Mr. Gilfil; 'they may be
coming this way.'

She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and ran
rapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in
selecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of
Captain Wybrow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to
admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean time
Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her hand, and, going up to
Sir Christopher, said--'There, Padroncello--there is a nice rose for your
button-hole.'

'Ah, you black-eyed monkey,' he said, fondly stroking her cheek; 'so you
have been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inch
or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us "_Ho perduto_"
before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes tomorrow, you know; you must
warble him into the right sentimental lover's mood, that he may acquit
himself well at Bath.' He put her little arm under his, and calling to
Lady Cheverel, 'Come, Henrietta!' led the way towards the house.

The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window,
corresponded to the library in the other wing, and had also a flat
ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry; but the window being unshaded,
and the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights and dames in
scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library.
Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of
Charles II. was the renovator of the family splendour, which had suffered
some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came over
with the Conqueror. A very im