“You have not been in this room since, brother?” she observed, half inquiringly.
“I have not, sister. It is now many years—many for those who are as young as ourselves.”
“Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandon Clawbonny—never destroy this blessed room!”
“I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I once did. If this house were good enough for our forefathers, why is it not good enough for me. It is respectable and comfortable, and what more do I want?
“And so warm in winter, and so cool in summer; with good thick stone walls; while everything they build now is a shingle palace! Besides, you can add your portion, and each addition has already been a good deal modernized. It is so pleasant to have a house that partakes of the usages of different periods!”
“I hardly think I shall ever abandon Clawbonny, my dear; for I find it growing more and more precious as other ties and expectations fail me.”
Grace drew herself entirely from my arms, and looked intently, and, as I fancied, anxiously at me, from the other corner of the settee. Then she affectionately took one of my hands, in both her own, and pressed it gently.
“You are young to speak of such things, my dear brother,” she said with a tone and air of sadness, I had never yet remarked in her voice and manner; “much too young for a man; though I fear we women are born to know sorrow!”
I could not speak if I would, for I fancied Grace was about to make some communications concerning Rupert. Notwithstanding the strong affection that existed between my sister and myself, not a syllable had ever been uttered by either, that bore directly on our respective relations with Rupert and Lucy Hardinge. I had long been certain that Rupert, who was never backward in professions, had years before spoken explicitly to Grace, and I made no doubt they were engaged, though probably subject to some such conditions as the approval of his father and myself; approvals, that neither had any reason for supposing would be withheld. Still, Grace had never intimated anything of the sort, and my conclusions were drawn from conjectures founded as I imagined on sufficient observation. On the other hand, I had never spoken to Grace, of my love for Lucy. Until within the last month, indeed, when jealousy and distrust came to quicken the sentiment, I was unconscious myself with how much passion I did actually love the dear girl; for, previously to that, my affection had seemed so much a matter of course, was united with so much that was fraternal, in appearance at least, that I had never been induced to enter into an inquiry as to the nature of this regard. We were both, therefore, touching on hallowed spots in our hearts, and each felt averse to laying bare the weakness.
“Oh! you know how it is with life, Grace,” I answered, with affected carelessness, after a moment's silence; “now all sun-shine, and now all clouds—I shall probably never marry, my dear sister, and you, or your children, will inherit Clawbonny; then you can do as you please with the house. As a memorial of myself, however, I will leave orders for stone to be got out this fall, and, next year, I will put up the south wing, of which we have so much talked, and add three or four rooms in which one will not be ashamed to see his friends.”