in life is to call you my own for ever.”  Amelia had her misgivings whether such a promise, in order that it might be used as legal evidence, should not have been written in ink.  It was a painful doubt; but nevertheless she was as good as her word, and saw him through the chink, forgiving him for his impetuosity in the parlour with, perhaps, more clemency than a mere pardon required.  “By George! how well she looked with her hair all loose,” he said to himself, as he at last regained his pillow, still warm with the generous god.  But now, as he thought of that night, returning on his road from Allington to Guestwick, those loose, floating locks were remembered by him with no strong feeling as to their charms.  And he thought also of Lily Dale, as she was when he had said farewell to her on that day before he first went up to London.  “I shall care more about seeing you than anybody,” he had said; and he had often thought of the words since, wondering whether she had understood them as meaning more than an assurance of ordinary friendship.  And he remembered well the dress she had then worn.  It was an old brown merino, which he had known before, and which, in truth, had nothing in it to recommend it specially to a lover’s notice.  “Horrid old thing!” had been Lily’s own verdict respecting the frock, even before that day.  But she had hallowed it in his eyes, and he would have been only too happy to have worn a shred of it near his heart, as a talisman.  How wonderful in its nature is that passion of which men speak when they acknowledge to themselves that they are in love.  Of all things, it is, under one condition, the most foul, and under another, the most fair.  As that condition is, a man shows himself either as a beast or as a god!  And so we will let poor Johnny Eames ride back to Guestwick, suffering much in that he had loved basely—­and suffering much, also, in that he had loved nobly.

Lily, as she had tripped along through the shrubbery, under her lover’s arm, looking up, every other moment, into his face, had espied her uncle and Bernard.  “Stop,” she had said, giving him a little pull at the arm; “I won’t go on.  Uncle is always teasing me with some old-fashioned wit.  And I’ve had quite enough of you to-day, sir.  Mind you come over to-morrow before you go to your shooting.”  And so she had left him.

We may as well learn here what was the question in dispute between the uncle and cousin, as they were walking there on the broad gravel path behind the Great House.  “Bernard,” the old man had said, “I wish this matter could be settled between you and Bell.”

“Is there any hurry about it, sir?”

“Yes, there is hurry; or, rather, as I hate hurry in all things, I would say that there is ground for despatch.  Mind, I do not wish to drive you.  If you do not like your cousin, say so.”

“But I do like her; only I have a sort of feeling that these things grow best by degrees.  I quite share your dislike to being in a hurry.”