ccompany the ladies in a
walk, and show Annabella and Milicent the beauties of the country. We
took a long ramble, and re-entered the park just as the sportsmen were
returning from their expedition. Toil-spent and travel-stained, the main
body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us, but Mr. Huntingdon, all
spattered and splashed as he was, and stained with the blood of his
prey--to the no small offence of my aunt's strict sense of
propriety--came out of his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and words
for all but me, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself,
walked up the road and began to relate the various exploits and disasters
of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with laughter if I
had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himself entirely to
Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter and all the badinage
to her, and affecting the utmost indifference to whatever passed between
them, walked along a few paces apart, and looking every way but theirs,
while my aunt and Milicent went before, linked arm in arm and gravely
discoursing together. At length Mr. Huntingdon turned to me, and
addressing me in a confidential whisper, said,--'Helen, why did you burn
my picture?'

'Because I wished to destroy it,' I answered, with an asperity it is
useless now to lament.

'Oh, very good!' was the reply; 'if you don't value me, I must turn to
somebody that will.'

I thought it was partly in jest--a half-playful mixture of mock
resignation and pretended indifference: but immediately he resumed his
place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this--during all that
evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next, and all this
morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kind word or one pleasant
look--never spoken to me, but from pure necessity--never glanced towards
me but with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of
assuming.

My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired the cause or
made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives her pleasure. Miss
Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly ascribes it to her own superior
charms and blandishments; but I am truly miserable--more so than I like
to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me
into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.

He meant no harm--it was only his joyous, playful spirit; and I, by my
acrimonious resentment--so serious, so d