astily ascended
the stairs to his door; her hand was already outstretched to knock, when
suddenly she hesitated; a strange confusion came over her faculties--how
would Mark regard her request?--would he attribute it to over-eagerness
on the subject of the invitation. Such were the questions which occurred
to her; and as quick came the answer--"And let him think so. I shall
certainly not seek to undeceive him. He alone, of all here, has
vouchsafed me neither any show of his affection nor his confidence."
The flush mounted to her cheek, and her eyes darkened with the momentary
excitement; and at the same instant the door was suddenly thrown open,
and Mark stood before her.

Such was his astonishment, however, that for some seconds he could not
speak; when at last he uttered in a low, deep voice--

"I thought I heard a hand upon the lock, and I am so suspicious of that
fellow, Kerry, who frequently plays the eaves-dropper here----"

"Not when you are alone, Mark?" said Kate, smiling.

"Ay--even then. I have a foolish habit of thinking aloud, of which I
strive in vain to break myself; and he seems to know it, too."

"There is another absent trick you have acquired also," said she,
laughing. "Do you remember having carried off the note that came while
we were at breakfast?"

"Did I?" said he, reddening. "Did I take it off the table? Yes, yes;
I remember something of it now. You must forgive me, cousin, if these
careless habits take the shape of rudeness." He seemed overwhelmed with
confusion, as he added, "I know not why I put it into my pocket; here it
is."

And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat a crushed and
crumpled paper, and gave it into Kate's hand. She wished to say
something in reply--something which would seem kind and good natured;
but, somehow, she faltered and hesitated. She twice got as far as, "I
know, Mark--I am certain, Mark;" then unable to say what, perhaps, her
very indecision rendered more difficult, she merely uttered a brief
"thank you," and withdrew.

"Poor fellow!" said she, as she re-entered her own chamber, "his is the
hardest lot of all."

She had often wished to persuade herself that Mark's morose, sullen
humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious
life--that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the
traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had been
long distinguished; and now, for the first time, she believe