Then, when she was reduced to the depths of perplexity and depression, Harry Dutton cautiously pleaded his cause, and, as a strong will bent on one object will always sway an irresolute mind, Bluebell listened, and for once tried to realize what it would be.  She had been frightened at Dutton’s precipitancy in the first instance; but now he had become in a manner necessary to her, and she certainly liked him,—­immensely.  Still, of course, after her experience of the grande passion, this mere entente cordiale could not be mistaken for the real article.  But there was another question:  had she not, by meeting him so often, given him a right so to speak, with fair expectation of success?  She had heedlessly walked into the snare with her eyes open, and felt no resisting power to break through the mesh of circumstances that environed her.

Bluebell wavered and hesitated.  Harry followed up his advantage.  Ere a few stars twinkled out, “single spies” on their colloquy, the struggle was over, and the bold wooer had extorted from his fiancee a promise to marry him the following morning but one at a register office in Liverpool.

The very next day they would probably not meet, as he had everything to arrange, and also to prepare a lodging for her, for they had determined to leave Liverpool immediately afterwards.

One thing only Bluebell retained her firmness sufficiently to stipulate for, which was, that the kind old captain should be told of it.  Mr. Dutton agreed, on condition that she did not breathe a syllable till after their marriage, when he promised to write himself and acquaint the skipper.

Bluebell could scarcely trust herself to think as she walked slowly home.  She felt quite reckless, and as though she were fated to do this act, that seemed so desperate.  What would all her friends in Canada say?  Somehow she did not look forward to telling the news to Mrs. Rolleston.  She supposed Cecil would be pleased, and it might clear up matters between her and Bertie.  Ah! if it were only him she was going to be married to!  Why does one always like the wicked ones best?  She wished to imagine him desperate, remorseful, beside himself with jealousy.  But she knew that would not be so.  At the utmost he would, perhaps, toss off a brandy-and-soda, give a tremendous sigh, and ejaculate, “Ah! poor, dear little Bluebell!” and then reflect that he would rather like to meet her again, when there would be no question of marrying—­the only thing he was unprepared to do for her.

From which tolerably accurate surmise our reader will perceive that our heroine has rather come on in penetration since we first presented her fresh and verdant in these pages.

Then she thought of her mother, and how disappointed she would be at not being present at the marriage.  She had written to her on landing, but this letter had been posted in Ireland.  Since then she had acquainted her with the facts of Evelyn’s death, and of her own exertions to obtain another situation, lodging in the mean time with Mrs. Davidson.