estion which he
dared not answer for himself, and he applied to his father, in whose
high principles and clear judgment he placed implicit confidence. Mr.
Grahame was too shrewd, and in this case too interested an observer to
be unprepared for his son's avowal of his past feelings and present
perplexities.

"You are right, my son," he replied to his appeal; "It is Lilian's right
to decide for herself on that which will constitute her own happiness."

"Then I may speak to her--I may tell her--"

"All you desire that she should know," said Mr. Grahame, gently, "when
Lilian has had an opportunity of knowing what she must sacrifice in
accepting you."

"True--true--I will ask no promise from her--nay--I will accept none--I
will only assure her that should the world fail to fill her heart, the
truest and most devoted love awaits her here."

"And in listening to that assurance, without rebuking it, a delicate
woman would feel that she had pledged herself."

Michael Grahame's brow contracted, and his voice faltered slightly as,
after a moment's thoughtful pause, he asked, "What then would you have
me do?"

"Nothing at present--Lilian will soon leave us, and at Mr. Trevanion's
she will see quite another kind of life--a life which, with her fortune
and their friendship, may be hers, but which she must give up should she
become the wife of a mechanic and the daughter-in-law of a gardener. Let
her see this life, my boy, and then let her choose between you and it."

"And how can I hope that she will continue to regard me with kindness if
I suffer her to depart without any expression of interest in her?"

"Any expression of interest! I do not wish you to be colder to her than
you have hitherto been, and I am much mistaken if Lilian would exchange
your _brotherly_ affection for all the gewgaws in life."

"I will endeavor to take your advice, but I hope I shall not be tried
too long," were the concluding words of Michael Grahame, as he turned
from his father to seek composure in a solitary walk. When he had
returned, he found that his father had gone to the city--an unusual
circumstance at that season, and one which he could not afterwards avoid
connecting with a letter which Lilian received the next day from Anna
Trevanion, before she had risen from the breakfast table.

"Papa," wrote Miss Trevanion, "has made me perfectly happy, dear Lilian,
by declaring that he cannot consent to leave you longer in the country.
I hope y