It may seem strange, but from the very evidences of his carelessness, as they seemed to others, I gathered, after a time, the blissful conviction that Claude Bainrothe was not indifferent to me.  His reserve, his moroseness almost, the despairing way in which he spoke sometimes of his future life, his want of purpose, of interest in what was passing around him, his entire self-possession with Evelyn, so different from his embarrassment with me; his manner of pursuing me with his eyes, and holding me fast, and the long sidelong glances he often dropped at my feet like offerings, as I detected his vigilance—­all persuaded me that what I most wished to believe was true, and that I had awakened interest if not passion in his heart, for—­at last, I loved him!

The time came when his own lips confirmed my suspicions, my hopes—­when faintly, and in broken accents, he related to me the story of his love; mine, as he declared, since the evening of our first meeting; and asked my troth in turn.  I was so inexperienced in matters of this sort, I scarcely knew how to behave, I suppose; besides, I never thought of giving any other reply than the one he craved, for I too had inclined to him from the first.  I recognized this now, and did not deny it when he urged me for the truth, holding my hands in his, and looking into my eyes in a deep and tender and devoted way peculiar to himself, that thrilled to my very life—­an adoring expression that I have seen in no other gaze than his own, and which cast a glamour about him, I well believe, irresistible wherever it was exercised.

It was in September that we became engaged, with the joyful coincidence of Mr. Bainrothe, the somewhat reluctant consent of my father, the half-derisive approbation of Evelyn, the entire disapproval, expressed in eloquent silence, of the whole Stanbury family.  For a time, this grave coldness on their part alienated me greatly from them all, George Gaston especially; and had it not been for Mabel, and the bond she proved between us, we might have been divided for life thereafter.

My father’s declining health alone threw a bleakness over that rosy time of joy, and held in check the exuberance of my happy spirit, brimming like sparkling wine above the vase that contained it.  Sometimes, when I met Evelyn’s cold and gloomy eye, I felt myself rebuked for the indulgence of my perfect happiness.  “She knows that my father is more ill than he seems!” I would conjecture—­“Dr. Pemberton has told her what he conceals from me.  I am making festal garlands in readiness for my father’s grave, perhaps.”  Then with tears and entreaties I would question her:  “I cannot be mistaken,” I would say; “something is wrong with you.  Is it about my father?  If not of him, what is it, Evelyn, that makes your face like a stone mask of late—­once all life and joy?” “Miriam, I am not quite well,” she would reply evasively, or say, “I am meditating a step that will cost me dear.  My uncle, the Earl of Pomfret, the head of our house since my grandfather’s death, you know, writes me to visit him.  It is this fatal necessity—­for such for some reasons I feel it—­that oppresses me so heavily.”