andscape with its rich yet pensive light. The
scenes of the last five years flitted across his mind's eye in fleet
succession; his dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hollow
worldliness. Why, oh! why had he ever left his unpolluted home? Why
could he not have lived and died in that sylvan paradise? Why, oh! why
was it impossible to admit his beautiful companion into that sweet and
serene society? Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to
his hearth? Money! horrible money! It seemed to him that the contiguous
cottage and the labour of his hands, with her, were preferable to
palaces and crowds of retainers without her inspiring presence. And why
not screw his courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence
with his parents? They loved him; yes, they idolised him! For him, for
him alone, they sought the restoration of their house and fortunes.
Why, Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any his ancestors had
counted. Let them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe
as he had done in her enchantment; and could they wonder, could they
murmur, at his conduct? Would they not, oh! would they not, rather
admire, extol it! But, then, his debts, his overwhelming debts. All
the rest might be faced. His desperate engagement might be broken; his
family might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty: but, ruin! what
was to grapple with his impending ruin? Now his folly stung him; now the
scorpion entered his soul. It was not the profligacy of his ancestor,
it was not the pride of his family then, that stood between him and his
love; it was his own culpable and heartless career! He covered his face
with his hands; something touched him lightly; it was the parasol of
Miss Temple.

'I am afraid,' she said, 'that my visits have wearied you; but you have
been very kind and good.'

He rose rapidly, with a slight blush. 'Indeed,' he replied, 'I have
passed a most delightful morning, and I was only regretting that life
consisted of anything else but cottages and yourself.'

They were late; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie as they
re-entered the wood. 'We must hurry on,' said Miss Temple; 'dinner is
the only subject on which papa is a tyrant. What a sunset! I wonder if
Lady Armine will return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will
make her call upon us, for I want to copy the pictures in your gallery.'

'If they were not heir-looms, I would give them you,' said Ferdinand;