ordered that his Sunday suit should be prepared
for wearing, and when his aspect grew more and more serious as the hour
drew nigh, it was well understood by them all that he was going to make
the offer that day.

He was both proud and fearful as to the thing to be done,--proud that he,
the Squire of Buston, should be called on to take so important a step;
proud by anticipation of his feelings as he would return home a jolly
thriving wooer,--and yet a little fearful lest he might not succeed. Were
he to fail the failure would be horrible to him. He knew that every man
and woman about the place would know all about it. Among the secrets of
the family there was a story, never now mentioned, of his having done
the same thing, once before. He was then a young man, about twenty-five,
and he had come forth to lay himself and Buston at the feet of a
baronet's daughter who lived some twenty-five miles off. She was very
beautiful, and was said to have a fitting dower, but he had come back,
and had shut himself up in the house for a week afterward. To no human
ears had he ever since spoken of his interview with Miss Courteney. The
doings of that day had been wrapped in impenetrable darkness. But all
Buston and the neighboring parishes had known that Miss Courteney had
refused him. Since that day he had never gone forth again on such a
mission.

There were those who said of him that his love had been so deep and
enduring that he had never got the better of it. Miss Courteney had been
married to a much grander lover, and had been taken off to splendid
circles. But he had never mentioned her name. That story of his abiding
love was throughly believed by his sister, who used to tell it of him to
his credit when at the rectory the rector would declare him to be a
fool. But the rector used to say that he was dumb from pride, or that he
could not bear to have it known that he had failed at anything. At any
rate, he had never again attempted love, and had formally declared to
his sister that, as he did not intend to marry, Harry should be regarded
as his son. Then at last had come the fellowship, and he had been proud
of his heir, thinking that in some way he had won the fellowship
himself, as he had paid the bills. But now all was altered, and he was
to go forth to his wooing again.

There had been a rumor about the country that he was already accepted;
but such was not the case. He had fluttered about Buntingford, thinking
of it: bu