the subject of his thoughts—his cousin Lora.

It was love’s young dream—by some deemed the sweetest in life; is, perhaps, the most evanescent.

With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love’s endurance: amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter’s heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and this too in a Court famed for its fair.

That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, “deep in a forest dell,” where they had wandered in search of wild flowers—that soft pressure of Lora’s little hand—those thrilling words, “Dear Walter,” that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora’s pretty lips—all were remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.

Did she remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals of Whitehall Palace.

During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode. Though in those days letters were written at long intervals—and then only on matters of grand importance—Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not write to Lora—nor even about her. He knew what he said to his sister would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his cousin, had been carefully studied—as to the impression it might produce—for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference about his cousin’s affairs; and more than once there was danger of a quarrel—or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case, when his sister—ignorant of the pain she was producing—spoke of Lora’s great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county beaux.

Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter’s cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the acknowledged “belle of the shire.”