ttracted by
her--by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never
gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always
believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a
gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the
conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again.

That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not
be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant
future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father
oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion
nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally
vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness.
"Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,"
thought Ethel, "I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is
the time to test it! I must go home with papa."

It was a great struggle--on one side there was the deceitful guise of
modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the
kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there
was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the
party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast
at ---- College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as
designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who
had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to
her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply
ridiculous, and unkind--and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would
be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so
sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of
it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician's daughter!

That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept
this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she
ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was
done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything
else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her
heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss
her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She
had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it
was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was sym