I say, don't fall in love
with her--"

"Faith! St. George, but your admonition comes somewhat late--for I
believe I am half in love with her already."

"Then stop where you are, and go no deeper--for if I err not, she is
more than half in love with you, too."

"A strange reason, St. George, wherefore to bid me stop!"

"A most excellent good one!" replied the other, gravely, and almost
sadly, "for mutual love between you two can only lead to mutual
misery. Her father never would consent to her marrying you more than
he would to her marrying a peasant--the man is perfectly insane on the
subject of title-deeds and heraldry, and will accept no one for his
son-in-law who cannot show as many quarterings as a Spanish grandee,
or a German noble. But, of course, it is of no use talking about it.
Love never yet listened to reason; and, moreover, I suppose what is to
be is to be--come what may."

"And what will you do, St. George, about Agnes? I think you are
touched there a little!"

"Not a whit I--honor bright! And for what I will do--amuse myself,
George--amuse myself, and that pretty coquette, too; and if I find her
less of a coquette, with more of a heart than I fancy she has--" he
stopped short, and laughed.

"Well, what then--what then?" cried George Delawarr.

"It will be time enough to decide _then_."

"And so say I, St. George. Meanwhile, I too will amuse myself."

"Ay! but observe this special difference--what is fun to _you_ may be
death to _her_, for she _has_ a heart, and a fine, and true, and deep
one; may be death to yourself--for you, too, are honorable, and true,
and noble; and that is why I love you, George, and why I speak to you
thus, at the risk of being held meddlesome or impertinent."

"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Delawarr, moving his horse closer up to
him, and grasping his hand warmly, "never! You meddlesome or
impertinent! Let me hear no man call you so. But I will think of this.
On my honor, I will think of this that you have said!"

And he did think of it. Thought of it often, deeply--and the more he
thought, the more he loved Blanche Fitz-Henry.

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and still those two young cavaliers
were constant visiters, sometimes alone, sometimes with other gallants
in their company, at Ditton-in-the-Dale. And ever still, despite his
companion's warning, Delawarr lingered by the fair heiress' side,
until both were as deeply enamored as it is possible for two perso