But the latter might have been washed out to sea, and never—never might be heard of more.
The inexorable had to be accepted, but we fear that poor Mary Wellwood could not do so with the calmness of a disciple of Epictitus, the stoic.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SEQUEL.
Ellinor's sketching, as we have said, did not progress much.
She was full of thoughts, yet none of pride, of flattered vanity, or exultation were in her mind, but a dull and curious sense of fear and shame—a vague consciousness of doubt and wrong.
Could it be that she—unwittingly—had in any way given encouragement to this young baron, or done aught that led up to the sudden declaration he had made?
She could not tax herself with having done so. She liked him very much—who would not that knew him?—he was so suave, so gentle, and so manly. But love, no—she had no heart for him; and how were they to meet now, after this?
She felt as if suddenly wakened from a dream; but a more terrible awakening was soon to come upon her.
'Nonsense!' she thought; 'this silly young officer must evidently love or flirt with some one. Latterly it was Mary, now it is Ellinor.'