roll off, at your return. You, possibly, understand
it better than I. Yet I feel, in my strong anxiety for your true good,
impelled to warn you against letting her deceive herself and you, by
giving you less than, for her own happiness and yours, she ought to be
able to give. Do not marry the child, Paul, if there can be a doubt of
her entire affection for you. You had better go through life alone, than
with a wife's half love. If you have reason to imagine that she feels
bound by anything in the past to what the present cannot heartily
ratify--release her. I counsel you to this, not more in justice to her,
than for the saving of your own peace. She writes you to-day. It may be
that the antidote comes with the hurt. I may be quite mistaken. But I
hurt you, my son, only to save a sorer pain. Faith is true. If she says
she loves you, believe her, and take her, though all the world should
doubt. But if she is fearful--if she hesitates--be fearful, and hesitate
yourself, lest your marriage be no true marriage before Heaven!"

Paul Rushleigh thanked his father, briefly, for his admonition, in
reply. He wrote, also, to Faith--affectionately, but with something, at
last, of her own reserve. He should not probably write again. In a week,
or less, he would be home.

And behind, and beyond all this, that could be put on paper, was the
hope of a life--the sharp doubt of days--waiting the final word!

In a week, he would be home! A week! It might bring much!

Wednesday had come round again.

Dinner was nearly ended at Lakeside. Cool jellies, and creams, and
fruits, were on the table for dessert. Steaming dishes of meats and
vegetables had been gladly sent away, but slightly partaken. The day was
sultry. Even now, at five in the afternoon, the heat was hardly
mitigated from that of midday.

They lingered over their dessert, and spoke, rather languidly, of what
might be done after.

"For me," said Mr. Rushleigh, "I must go down to the mills again, before
night. If either, or both of you, like a drive, I shall be glad to have
you with me."

"Those hot mills!" exclaimed Margaret. "What an excursion to propose!"

"I could find you a very cool corner, even in those hot mills," replied
her father. "My little sanctum, upstairs, that overlooks the river, and
gets its breezes, is the freshest place I have been in, to-day. Will you
go, Faith?"

"Oh, yes! she'll go! I see it in her eyes!" said Margaret. "She is
getting to be as mu