nuance of a foe ready to assert the old rights, she
was so far unhappy that she wanted that composure of mind which consists
in the absence of conflict among one's own thoughts.

In the morning she found the locket lying on her parlour table, with the
inscription changed from Agnes Ainslie to Rachel Grierson. She took it
up and fixed her eyes upon it. At one time she would have given the
world for it; now it attracted her and repelled her. It came from the
only man she loved; but another name had been on it, which ought, for
aught she could be sure of, to have been on it still. It might be the
pledge of affection, but it might also be the evidence of falsehood to
her and unfaithfulness to another. And then, as she traced the lines of
her name, she thought she could discover the signs of a tremulousness in
the hand that traced them. Amidst all these thoughts and conflicting
feelings, she could not help recurring to the circumstance that he had
not presented the locket with his own hands. She was unwilling to
indulge in an unfavourable construction; and perhaps the more so that it
so far pleased her as relieving her from the dilemma of accepting it
with more coldness than her love warranted, or more warmth than her
reason allowed. Nay, though she gloated over his image when she was
alone, she felt an undefined fear of meeting him. Might he not be
precipitated into some further defence or confession, which might
fortify suspicions still battling against her prepossessions, and
diminish her love? Nor was this disinclination towards personal
interviews confined to this day--it continued; and it seemed as if he
also wished his connection with her to stand in the meantime upon the
pledges and confessions already made. This she could also notice; but as
for rendering a true reason for it, she couldn't, even with the great
ability she possessed in construing conduct and character.

But meanwhile time was accumulating antagonistic forces which would
explode in a consummation. Her thoughts were to be occupied by another,
who claimed her affections and care by an appeal as powerful as it was
without guile. Her father was seized with paralysis. He was laid
speechless on the bed where she sat, a watchful and affectionate nurse,
ready to sacrifice sleep and peace and rest to the wants of him who, all
through her life, had been her friend and benefactor, and who had
provided for her future days at the expense of hopes entertained by hi