Winter, spring, summer and autumn crept slowly away in, the lonely dwelling.  In the last days of November he announced to his family, with the usual suddenness of his peremptory will, that he should go to Washington City for the winter, taking with him his wife and granddaughter, and leaving his two sons in charge of the works, and that they would be joined in Washington at Christmas by his grandson, for whom he was about to apply for admission into the military academy at West Point.

Regulas called frequently, and his attentions to Cora were marked.

The Rockharrt party went to Washington on the first of December, and took possession of the suite of rooms previously engaged for them at one of the large West End hotels.

One morning, when Rule was out of the way, being on a canvassing round with Mr. Rockharrt among such members of Congress as had remained in the city, Sylvan suddenly asked his sister: 

“Cora, what’s to make the pot boil?”

“What do you mean?” inquired the young lady, looking up from “Bleak House,” which she was reading.

“Who’s to get the grub?”

“I—­don’t understand you.”

“Oh, yes, you do.  What are you and Rothsay to live on after you are married?  He is poor as a church mouse, and you are not much richer.  You are reported to be an heiress and all that, but you know very well that you cannot touch a cent of your money until you are twenty-five years old, and not even then if you have married in the interim without our great Mogul’s consent.  Such are the wise provisions of our father’s will.  Now then, when you and Rule are married, what is to make the pot boil?”

“There is no question of marriage between Mr. Rothsay and myself,” replied Cora, with a fine assumption of dignity, which was, however, quite, lost on Sylvan, who favored her with a broad stare and then exclaimed: 

“No question of marriage between you?  My stars and garters! then there ought to be, for you are both carrying on at a—­at a—­at a most tremendous rate!”

Cora took up her book and walked out of the room in stately displeasure.

No; there had been no question of marriage between them; no spoken question, at least, up to this day.

This was true to-day, but it was not true on the following day, when Cora and Rule, being alone in the parlor, fell into thoughtful silence, neither knowing exactly why.

This was broken at last by Rule.

“Cora, will you look at me, dear?”

She raised her eyes and meet his fixed full and tenderly on hers.

“Cora, I think that you and I have understood each other a long time, too long a time for the reserve we have practiced.  My dear, will you now share the poverty of a poor man who loves you with all his heart, or will you wait for that man until he shall have made a home and position more worthy of you?  Speak, my love, or if you prefer, take some time to think of this.  My fate is in your hands.”