to certain gifts of character. She did
believe herself to be strong of purpose and capable of endurance. But
in some respects she was humble enough. She gave herself no credit
for feminine charms such as the world loves. In appearance she was
one calculated to attract attention,--somewhat tall, well set on her
limbs, active, and of good figure; her brow was broad and fine, her
grey eyes were bright and full of intelligence, her nose and mouth
were well formed, and there was not a mean feature in her face.
But there was withal a certain roughness about her, an absence of
feminine softness in her complexion, which, to tell the truth of her,
was more conspicuous to her own eyes than to any others. The farmers
and their wives about the place would declare that Miss Isabel was
the finest young woman in South Wales. With the farmers and their
wives she was on excellent terms, knowing all their ways, and anxious
as to all their wants. With the gentry around she concerned herself
but little. Her uncle's habits were not adapted to the keeping of
much company, and to her uncle's habits she had fitted herself
altogether. It was on this account that neither did she know the
young men around, nor did they know her. And then, because no such
intimacies had grown up she told herself that she was unlike other
girls,--that she was rough, unattractive, and unpopular.

Then the day came for the arrival of Henry Jones, during the approach
to which Uncle Indefer had, from day to day, become more and more
uneasy. Isabel had ceased to say a word against him. When he had been
proposed to her as a lover she had declared that she had loathed
him. Now that suggestion had been abandoned, or left in abeyance.
Therefore she dealt with his name and with his coming as she might
with that of any other guest. She looked to his room, and asked
questions as to his comfort. Would it not be well to provide a
separate dinner for him, seeing that three o'clock would be regarded
as an awkward hour by a man from London? "If he doesn't like it, he
had better go back to London," said the old Squire in anger. But the
anger was not intended against his girl, but against the man who by
the mere force of his birth was creating such a sea of troubles.

"I have told you what my intentions are," the Squire said to his
nephew on the evening of his arrival.

"I am sure that I am very much obliged to you, my dear uncle."

"You need not be in the least obliged to me. I