ussed. Aunt Julia, who was strong-limbed,
as well as strong-minded, at last assented, the curate having
promised all necessary aid. Mrs. Lovel seated herself at a distance
to see the exploit; and then Lord Lovel started, with Lady Anna,
turning at every stone to give a hand to his cousin.

"Oh, they are very dreadful!" said Lady Anna, when about a dozen had
been passed.

The black water was flowing fast, fast beneath her feet; the stones
became smaller and smaller to her imagination, and the apertures
between them broader and broader.

"Don't look at the water, dear," said the lord, "but come on quick."

"I can't come on quick. I shall never get over. Oh, Frederic!" That
morning she had promised that she would call him Frederic. Even
Daniel could not think it wrong that she should call her cousin
by his Christian name. "It's no good, I can't do that one,--it's
crooked. Mayn't I go back again?"

"You can't go back, dear. It is only up to your knees, if you do
go in. But take my hand. There,--all the others are straight,--you
must come on, or Aunt Julia will catch us. After two or three times,
you'll hop over like a milkmaid. There are only half-a-dozen more.
Here we are. Isn't that pretty?"

"I thought I never should have got over. I wouldn't go back for
anything. But it is lovely; and I am so much obliged to you for
bringing me here. We can go back another way?"

"Oh, yes;--but now we'll get up the bank. Give me your hand." Then
he took her along the narrow, twisting, steep paths, to the top of
the wooded bank, and they were soon beyond the reach of Aunt Julia,
Minnie, and the curate.

It was very pleasant, very lovely, and very joyous; but there was
still present to her mind some great fear. The man was there with her
as an acknowledged lover,--a lover, acknowledged to be so by all but
herself; but she could not lawfully have any lover but him who was
now slaving at his trade in London. She must tell this gallant lord
that he must not be her lover; and, as they went along, she was
always meditating how she might best tell him, when the moment for
telling him should come. But on that morning, during the entire walk,
he said no word to her which seemed quite to justify the telling. He
called her by sweet, petting names,--Anna, my girl, pretty coz, and
such like. He would hold her hand twice longer than he would have
held that of either aunt in helping her over this or that little
difficulty,--and would help he