soon afterwards; for the day succeeding that on which he met her, found him walking and chatting with her father, as familiarly as though they had been friends from infancy.  Before a week was over, the lieutenant had dined three times with Mildred at his hotel, and had taken six pipes, and as many glasses of grog, in token of his fidelity and good fellowship.  From being the host of Lieutenant Graham, it was an easy transition to become his guest.  Mildred was taken to the mariner’s cot, and from that hour his destiny was fixed.  In Margaret Graham he found, or he believed he had, the being whom he had sought so long—­the vision which had not, until now, been realized.  Six months elapsed, and found the lover a constant visitor at the lieutenant’s fireside.  He had never spoken of his passion, nor did any of the household dream of what was passing in his heart, save Margaret, who could not fail to see that she possessed it wholly.  His wealth was likewise still a secret, his position in society unknown.  His liberal sentiments and unaffected demeanour had gained him the regard of the unsophisticated parent—­his modest bearing and politeness were not less grateful to the sisters.  Mildred had resolved a hundred times to reveal to Margaret the depth and earnestness of his attachment, and to place his heart and fortune at her feet, but he dared not do it when time and opportunity arrived.  Day by day his ardent love increased—­stronger and stronger grew the impression which had first been stamped upon his noble mind; new graces were discovered; virtues were developed that had escaped his early notice, enhancing the maiden’s loveliness and worth.  Still he continued silent.  He was a shy, retiring man, and entertained a meek opinion of his merits.  The difference of age was very great.  He dwelt upon the fact, until it seemed a barrier fatal to his success.  Young, accomplished, and exceeding beautiful, would she not expect, did she not deserve, a union with youth and virtues equal to her own?  Was it not madness to suppose that she would shower such happiness on him?  Was he not over bold and arrogant to hope it?  Aware of his disadvantage, and rendered miserable by the thought of losing her in consequence, he had been tempted once or twice to communicate to Margaret the amount of wealth that he possessed; but here, too, his reluctant tongue grew ever dumb as he approached the dangerous topic.  No; his soul would pine in disappointment and despair, before it could consent to purchase love—­love which transcends all price when it becomes the heart’s free offering, but is not worth a rush to buy or bargain for.  Could he but be sure that for himself alone she would receive his hand—­could he but once be satisfied of this, how paltry the return, how poor would be the best that he could offer for her virgin trust?  What was his wealth compared with that?  But how be sure and satisfied?  Ask and be refused?  Refused, and then denied the privilege to gaze upon