three, four! Deborah had got it into her head that those men were all pitted against her father, and were laughing at his ruin. She walked restlessly to and fro; her cheeks began to fire and her wild eyes to flash. Suddenly her father, looking pale and unsteady, and leaning on the arm of a tall angular old man, entered the hall. Both started as if they saw a ghost; Sir Vincent grasped Adam Sinclair's arm, and so Deborah Fleming faced them in all her beauty.

'Child,' muttered Sir Vincent huskily, 'my old friend. Shake Master Sinclair by the hand. He's your father's good friend.'

Adam Sinclair smiled suavely, and bowed well-nigh to his knees; he was quite sober, and now beheld the superb figure he had seen on horseback at Granta, and a face of exquisite loveliness and disdain. But when he extended his long lean palm, Deborah put her right hand behind her back, laid the other on her father's arm, and knitted her dark brows at Sinclair with the glance of a tigress. So passed that formal introduction.

Merriment, disdain, angry passion—he remembered all, and still Deborah Fleming stood before him as she had stood on the night of his repulse. He must see her again and talk with her. Twice he called in vain at Enderby, and still those falcon eyes pursued him. Day and night, he pictured some man, young and handsome, kneeling at Deborah Fleming's feet, and then he shook with the maddening thought. Then he bethought him of his own broad lands and his grand old castle, and he had hopes of he knew not what. But trembling, he rode again to Enderby. Sir Vincent was not at home; 'Mistress Fleming' was. Thus he stood, waiting for Mistress Fleming's step: he was not deaf, when it came; he counted each light reluctant footfall, and his heart beat violently, like a boy's. So the courtier and the country maiden met for the first time, alone. Master Sinclair apologised again, as he had done by Marjory, for the intrusion, but begged the favour of a few moments' interview with Mistress Fleming. Mistress Fleming bowed in proud silence, and a faint colour tinged her cheeks, at the thought of her former reception of this grave old man; she thought in her heart she had been rude and unmaidenly, perhaps unjust to him; still an unconquerable dislike and shrinking made her sit as far away from him as might be. He staid a long half hour, and he paid her delicate and courtly compliments; he shewed by his looks and conversation that he thought her not only a beautiful girl but a thoughtful intellectual woman. Deborah was half charmed against her own heart; and he found her so sweet and gentle, that the next day he rode over again, trembling with eagerness, wild hopes, and sore anxiety, and had asked to see Sir Vincent Fleming. Deborah was out. She returned from a ride in one of her mad fits of joy and animal spirits, and with loosened hair and flying step, entered the hall where Sir Vincent was alone. It was a fair spring evening; the old baronet was smoking his pipe, and striding thoughtfully to and fro, but somehow Deborah stopped on her way to his arms; she knew by his face that something unusual had happened.

'Come hither, Rose of Enderby,' said Sir Vincent, and threw down his pipe, and gathered his little daughter in his arms. 'Let me congratulate thee on thy first conquest.'

'What do you mean, father?' asked Deborah, blushing as red as any rose.

'Why, a fellow has been here this morning asking ye of me—asking ye in marriage—no less than Master Adam Sinclair, of Lincoln Castle!'

What a flood of colour rushed into Deborah's face, dyeing her very brow! She was startled, she was shamed, she was half proud, she was disdainful. 'Does that old man want to wed me, father?'

'Ay; that old man, the greatest man in the county.'

'In riches, father.'

'And in land: he has a goodly home. He has done your father good service, Deb. And he is charmed with Mistress Fleming.'

'Well, let him be charmed. I find no charms in him. Nay; shake not your head, good father. Not only do I find nought to charm me, but my heart rebels against the smooth-tongued old man who calls himself my father's friend. Father, I love him not. Not for twenty castles, would I be Master Sinclair's wife!'

'Wrong, wrong, Deb; too rash by half. Think it over, child; ask yourself if ye are not hot-headed, blind, and prejudiced; and if it were not better to wait and know Master Sinclair better, before casting from ye the prize that has been for many years the vain desire of every maid and matron round. Wait, Deb, and let me have your sober answer to-morrow, or later still.'

Deborah grew very pale. 'Father,' she said, 'd'ye really, truly love and respect this Adam Sinclair in your heart? Is he so dear to you—and can ye trust him so well, that after a few hours' thought ye are ready and willing to give up your one daughter to him for life? For life, father—for life—and no love to bear me up.'

'He is an old man, Deb.'

'Yes; and he will die soon, you would say, and leave Lincoln Castle to me! But first, I would sell my soul, father, and drag on through days of unutterable horror, as Adam Sinclair's wife, before I could be released. And God might judge me, by taking me the first. O father, father! Say thou lovest me. Do not break my heart. Say thou hast some great and secret reason for liking this old man. Say thou'rt in a grievous strait, to need this help of me. Or only say, sweet father, that it wrings thine heart to ask me to part from thee. Anything, but that thou'rt willing to be rid of Deb! Ah me! Thou art cool, father—thou art indifferent, while my soul aches for sorrow at the very thought of parting from thee! Ah, but thou wilt have thy darling still—thy Charlie; while Deb, poor Deb would languish as Mistress Sinclair, with no more hope in life. I should have nought but memory, and memory would be like to drive me mad!'

Sir Vincent was fairly taken by storm, by Deborah's burst of fiery feeling; he grew pale as herself, he folded her to his breast; for indeed under his exterior coolness, he had been sore pressed, and feeling deeply; his heart had been loudly crying out on him, for this temptation to give away his young and only daughter to a man more than double her years, and such a man as Adam Sinclair. 'Deb, Deb,' he faltered, 'thou hast vanquished me! Love thee, child—love thee, little sweet blossom! Thy mother's living image, my hope, my stay! Nay; keep in my heart, and shelter here! It is all I have to offer thee. Don't unman me, love, by these tears. 'Twas sore temptation tempted me to give thee up—to have thee the greatest lady in the county, instead of nought but the daughter of a beggared and a ruined man.'

Deborah dashed aside her tears; all her heart spoke in her brave bright upward smile upon his breast: 'Nay, father, nay—not beggared, not ruined. These are strong words. And thy love is greater treasure to me than all the wealth of Master Sinclair. Put thine arms round me. There; I am as happy and hopeful as a queen; so thou wilt be happy too. And who knows but Deborah Fleming may do great things yet? Why, if Master Sinclair finds something in this poor Deborah Fleming to love, a greater and grander may. I am not so modest but that I know my worth either.'

'Ah, thou'lt make many a heart ache, Deb, before thy day is done. Meantime, be kind and friendly to Adam Sinclair, for my sake, if he will be friends. I tell ye he will not give up hope. I know Adam. Repulse him not, Deb; let him hope on; it will sun Adam's declining days.'

'I will give him no false hopes, father. Tell him from me that I can never be his wife; thus he may be looking elsewhere. Then if it pleases him to come to Enderby for my friendship's sake, he can. But father, does he not darken Enderby?'

Sir Vincent frowned. 'How mean ye, child?'

'Why, father, he professes