No sooner had Mr. Ainslie left than Rachel was visited in her private parlour by Walter Grierson himself.  He had seldom taken that liberty before, for her secret passion had been ruled by a stern virtue.  A natural shyness, remote from coyness, demanded the conciliation of respect, though ready at a moment to pass into the generosity of confidence where she was certain of a return; but his presence before her might have been accounted for by his appearance, which was that of one whose excitement was only attempted to be overborne by an effort—­a result more mechanical than spiritual.  His manner, not less than his countenance, composed to gravity, was belied by the tremulous light of his eye; and as he seized her hand and pressed it fervently, she could feel that his trembled more than her own.  Her manner was also embarrassed, as it well might be, where so many conflicting feelings, some revived from old memories, and some produced by the singular events of the day and hour, agitated her frame.

“I am going to surprise you, cousin,” he said, while he fixed his eye upon her, as if to watch the effect of his words.

Rachel forgot for a moment the philosophy of Paul—­why should one be surprised when the thing that is to be is a result of a change in something else as old as Aldebaran, let alone “the sun and the seven stars?” She was indeed prepared for a surprise.

“It is just the old story of the heart,” he resumed.  “Our intercourse began so early, and partook so much of that of mere relations, that I never could tell when the mere social feeling gave place to another which I need not mention.  You know, Rachel, what I mean.”

She was silent because she was distrustful, yet her heart beat bravely in spite of her efforts; for was not this man the object of her love, and is not love moved with an eloquence which makes reason ashamed of her poor figures and modes?

“Yes,” he went on, “I take it for granted that you know I am only labouring towards a confession.  Yes, dear heart, for years I have considered you as the one sole object in all this world of fair visions formed to make me happy.  You see I cannot get out of the ordinary mode of speech.  The lover is fated to adjure, to praise, and to petition always in the same set form of words; yet is not the confession enough?”

“So far,” said she; “but I have never seen any evidence of all this;” as if she wanted more in the same strain—­sweet to the ear, though distrusted by the reason.

“No more you have,” he continued, “yet you know that love is often suspicious of itself.  I have watched with my eye your movements and attitudes when you thought I was not observing you.  My ear has followed your voice through adjoining rooms when you thought I was listening to other sounds.  I have admired your words, without venturing the response of admiration.  Often I have wished to fold you in my arms when you dreamt nothing of my inward thoughts.  In short, Rachel, I have loved you for years!  Yes, I have enjoyed, or suffered, this gloating, yea, delightful misery of the heart when it feeds upon its own secret treasures, and trembles at the test which might dissolve the dream.”