was no work of his.

Sir William, who arrived before the Earl, was introduced for the
first time to the young lady. "Lady Anna," he said, "for some months
past I have heard much of you. And now I have great pleasure in
meeting you." She smiled, and strove to look pleased, but she had
not a word to say to him. "You know I ought to be your enemy," he
continued laughing, "but I hope that is well nigh over. I should not
like to have to fight so fair a foe." Then the young lord arrived,
and the lawyers of course gave way to the lover.

Lady Anna, from the moment in which she was told that he was to come,
had thought of nothing but the manner of their greeting. It was not
that she was uneasy as to her own fashion of receiving him. She could
smile and be silent, and give him her hand or leave it ungiven, as he
might demand. But in what manner would he accost her? She had felt
sure that he had despised her from the moment in which she had told
him of her engagement. Of course he had despised her. Those fine
sentiments about ladies and gentlemen, and the gulf which had been
fixed, had occurred to her before she heard them from the mouth
of Miss Alice Bluestone. She understood, as well as did her young
friend, what was the difference between her cousin the Earl, and her
lover the tailor. Of course it would be sweet to be able to love such
a one as her cousin. They all talked to her as though she was simply
obstinate and a fool, not perceiving, as she did herself, that the
untowardness of her fortune had prescribed this destiny for her.
Good as Daniel Thwaite might be,--as she knew that he was,--she felt
herself to be degraded in having promised to be his wife. The lessons
they had taught her had not been in vain. And she had been specially
degraded in the eyes of him, who was to her imagination the brightest
of human beings. They told her that she might still be his wife
if only she would consent to hold out her hand when he should ask
for it. She did not believe it. Were it true, it could make no
difference,--but she did not believe it. He had scorned her when she
told him the tale at Bolton Abbey. He had scorned her when he hurried
away from Yoxham. Now he was coming to the Serjeant's house, with
the express intention of meeting her again. Why should he come? Alas,
alas! She was sure that he would never speak to her again in that
bright sunny manner, with those dulcet honey words, which he had used
when first they saw each o