'I know that Cecil Falconer loves me!' she would whisper to Annabelle Erroll, in the seclusion of their own particular sanctum; 'his eyes, his voice, and his manner all begin to tell me so. Why does he not speak out? I wish he had half the fluency and confidence of that oaf Hew.'
'But Hew knows the wishes, and is backed by the authority of your kinsman and guardian, Sir Piers,' replied Annabelle; 'and if any contretemps occurs—you know——'
'Well—what then?'
'It will only be a thousand pities that young Falconer ever found his way to Eaglescraig at all!'
There were more of this opinion than the soft, pretty blonde Annabelle. A curious and subtle change had come over Mary—a change detected only by Mrs. Garth; as for Hew, he had been too obtuse to notice it; and over her fair, soft face, when she was alone, or sunk in reverie, there shone a brighter light than of yore—a happier and yet more thoughtful expression.
Whence was this? thought Mrs. Garth.
'Take care, Mary,' said the old lady one day, when caressingly folding her to her motherly heart, as she was often wont to do; 'my little pet-bird, be wary, for your own sake, and all our sakes.'
'Wary of what?' asked Mary, growing pale as she knew intuitively what was coming.
'Need I tell you—of this young Cameronian.'
'Why, how? fiddlestick! dearest Mrs. Garth; what do you fear?'