hance of moulding her to their
purposes would have been better. As it was they had never argued with
her on the subject without putting forward some statement which she
found herself bound to combat. She was told continually that she had
degraded herself; and she could understand that another Lady Anna
might degrade herself most thoroughly by listening to the suit of
a tailor. But she had not disgraced herself. Of that she was sure,
though she could not well explain to them her reasons when they
accused her. Circumstances, and her mother's mode of living, had
thrown her into intimacy with this man. For all practical purposes
of life he had been her equal,--and being so had become her dearest
friend. To take his hand, to lean on his arm, to ask his assistance,
to go to him in her troubles, to listen to his words and to believe
them, to think of him as one who might always be trusted, had
become a second nature to her. Of course she loved him. And now
the martyrdom through which she had passed in Bedford Square had
changed,--unconsciously as regarded her own thoughts,--but still
had changed her feelings in regard to her cousin. He was not to her
now the bright and shining thing, the godlike Phoebus, which he had
been in Wyndham Street and at Yoxham. In all their lectures to her
about her title and grandeur they had succeeded in inculcating an
idea of the solemnity of rank, but had robbed it in her eyes of all
its grace. She had only been the more tormented because the fact of
her being Lady Anna Lovel had been fully established. The feeling in
her bosom which was most hostile to the tailor's claim upon her was
her pity for her mother.

She entered the room very gently, and found him standing by the
table, with his hands clasped together. "Sweetheart!" he said, as
soon as he saw her, calling her by a name which he used to use when
they were out in the fields together in Cumberland.

"Daniel!" Then he came to her and took her hand. "If you have
anything to say, Daniel, you must be very quick, because mamma will
come in ten minutes."

"Have you anything to say, sweetheart?" She had much to say if she
only knew how to say it; but she was silent. "Do you love me, Anna?"
Still she was silent. "If you have ceased to love me, pray tell me
so,--in all honesty." But yet she was silent. "If you are true to
me,--as I am to you, with all my heart,--will you not tell me so?"

"Yes," she murmured.

He heard her, though no other c