was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were
cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all
was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy-chair, half shut
her eyes, and rested herself--rested at least her limbs, her senses, her
hearing, her vision--weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on
vacancy. As to her mind, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on
the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the
counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of
Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour; for Robert
was half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline than her
deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing the
churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate--not, however, coming to
see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of
intelligence to the rector.

Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate; it rings again for
the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that
this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are so certain you cannot
explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening
eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is _the_ voice--low, with
the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise.
"Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and then he will go
away." Oh! she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her
reason, she walks half across the room; she stands ready to dart out in
case the step should retreat; but he enters the passage. "Since your
master is engaged," he says, "just show me into the dining-room. Bring
me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him."

Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if
there was a door within the dining-room, would glide through it and
disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected
presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown to him;
that second past, she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way
of escape. The dining-room has but one door, through which now enters
her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his
face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered
a sort of apology:--

"I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet."

There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with
which