e! And yet, there was a something. I was not satisfied; I was not
thoroughly at ease; my cousin's face would intrude itself upon my
thoughts. I could not get out of my head the tone of manly kindness
and regret in which he had last addressed me. I reflected on his
sincerity, his generosity, his undeviating fidelity and good-humour,
till my heart smote me to think of all he suffered for my sake; and I
began to wonder whether I was worthy of being so much cared for, and
whether I was justified in throwing all this faith and truth away.

Reader, have you ever lived for weeks and weeks in a place which bored
you to death? Have you learned to loathe every tree and shrub and
hedge-row in the dreary landscape? Have you shivered up and down the
melancholy walks, and yawned through the dull, dark rooms, till you
began to think the hour never would arrive that was to restore you
once again to liberty and light? And then, when the hour _has_ come at
last, have you been able to take your departure without some
half-reproachful feeling akin to melancholy--without some slight shade
of regret to think that much as you have hated it, you look upon it
all now for the _last_ time? Perhaps the sun breaks out and shines
upon the old place as you catch your last glimpse. Ah! it never used
to shine like that when you could see it from those windows every day;
you almost wish your departure had been put off till the morrow; you
think if you were back again, the walks would not be so very
melancholy, the rooms no longer so dull and gloomy. You sigh because
you are leaving it, and wonder at yourself for doing so. It is the
same thing with friends, and more especially with those who would fain
assume a tenderer title: we never know their value but by their loss.

"If it wasn't for Frank," I began to think, "I really believe I might
have been very happy with Cousin John. Of course, it's impossible now;
and, as he says himself, he'll never be anything but a cousin to me.
Poor John! he's a noble, true-hearted, unselfish, generous fellow."

But to return to my walk. When a lady and gentleman meet each other by
appointment, either at the edge of the Serpentine or elsewhere, their
conversation is not generally of a nature to be related in detail, nor
is it to be presumed that their colloquy would prove as interesting to
the general public as to themselves. What I learnt of Frank's private
history, his views, feelings, and intentions, on that morning,