thur Myrvin, in her he ever found a willing and attentive
auditor. Whenever he had ridden over to Hawthorndell, which he
frequently did, Emmeline would always in their next walk playfully draw
from him every particular of the "Lone Hermit," as in true poetic style
she termed Arthur. But there was no seriousness in her converse either
of or to young Myrvin. There was always mischief lurking in her
laughter-loving eye; always some wild joke betrayed in the arch smiles
ever lingering round her mouth; but mischief as it was, apparently the
mere wantonness of childhood, or very early youth, something in that
glance or smile ever bade young Myrvin's heart beat quicker than before,
and every pulse throb with what at first he deemed was pain. It was
relief to him to seek the quiet, gentle Ellen, and speak to her even as
he would to a sister, of all that had occurred to him since last they
met, so secure was he of sympathy in his future prospects, his present
cares and joys. But still that strange feeling lingered within his bosom
in his solitary hours, and he dwelt on it much more than on the gentle
accents of that fair girl whom in his boyhood he had termed his wife;
and stranger still, if it were pain, that it should urge him on to seek
it, that he could not rest till the glance of that eye, the tone of that
voice, had once more been seen and heard, till fresh excitement had been
given to thoughts and emotions which were unconsciously becoming the
mainsprings of his life.

The undisturbed and happy calmness of Oakwood removed in a great measure
Caroline's painful feelings; all thoughts of Lord Alphingham were
gradually banished. The question how she could ever have been so blind
as to imagine that he had gained her affections, that she loved him,
returned more frequently than she could answer.

But another vision stood forth to confront the darkened one of the
Viscount, and the contrast heightened the lustre of the former. Why had
she been so mad, so infatuated, as to reject with scorn and pride the
hand and heart of one so noble, so fond, so superior as Eugene St. Eval?
Now that the film had been removed from her eyes, that all the past
appeared in its true colours, that self-will and love of independence
had departed from her, the startling truth burst upon her mind, that
she had loved, truly loved, the very man who of all others would have
been the choice of both her parents--loved, and as his wife, might have
been one of