’It is all over now, Matilda!  I shall never have courage to tell my father; nay, most deeply do I fear he has already learned my secret from another quarter, which will entirely remove the grace of my communication, and ruin whatever gleam of hope I had ventured to connect with it.  Yesternight Brown came as usual, and his flageolet on the lake announced his approach.  We had agreed that he should continue to use this signal.  These romantic lakes attract numerous visitors, who indulge their enthusiasm in visiting the scenery at all hours, and we hoped that, if Brown were noticed from the house, he might pass for one of those admirers of nature, who was giving vent to his feelings through the medium of music.  The sounds might also be my apology, should I be observed on the balcony.  But last night, while I was eagerly enforcing my plan of a full confession to my father, which he as earnestly deprecated, we heard the window of Mr. Mervyn’s library, which is under my room, open softly.  I signed to Brown to make his retreat, and immediately reentered, with some faint hopes that our interview had not been observed.

’But, alas!  Matilda, these hopes vanished the instant I beheld Mr. Mervyn’s countenance at breakfast the next morning.  He looked so provokingly intelligent and confidential, that, had I dared, I could have been more angry than ever I was in my life; but I must be on good behaviour, and my walks are now limited within his farm precincts, where the good gentleman can amble along by my side without inconvenience.  I have detected him once or twice attempting to sound my thoughts, and watch the expression of my countenance.  He has talked of the flageolet more than once, and has, at different times, made eulogiums upon the watchfulness and ferocity of his dogs, and the regularity with which the keeper makes his rounds with a loaded fowling-piece.  He mentioned even man-traps and springguns.  I should be loth to affront my father’s old friend in his own house; but I do long to show him that I am my father’s daughter, a fact of which Mr. Mervyn will certainly be convinced if ever I trust my voice and temper with a reply to these indirect hints.  Of one thing I am certain—­I am grateful to him on that account—­he has not told Mrs. Mervyn.  Lord help me, I should have had such lectures about the dangers of love and the night air on the lake, the risk arising from colds and fortune-hunters, the comfort and convenience of sack-whey and closed windows!  I cannot help trifling, Matilda, though my heart is sad enough.  What Brown will do I cannot guess.  I presume, however, the fear of detection prevents his resuming his nocturnal visits.  He lodges at an inn on the opposite shore of the lake, under the name, he tells me, of Dawson; he has a bad choice in names, that must be allowed.  He has not left the army, I believe, but he says nothing of his present views.