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12 advise my daughter wisely and for her best good." Such was the sum and substance of the message the girl had brought.

"I am Sinfire!" I repeated the words to myself as I followed her and my mother to the drawing-room. Did ever a young English gentlewoman, before this, have such a name inflicted on her? Christian name it surely could not be termed; nor could I call to mind any such in the annals of paganism. Possibly it might be Hindoo; but we had no reason to suppose that my uncle had embraced the faith of Brahma. It was decidedly an ominous name so far as sound went; and the young lady herself, though beautiful and inviting to look upon, was evidently one of those beings who are not to be fathomed at a glance, and whose secret depths may contain something not indicated by the gracious outward contours. But, for the present, she was rather grave, rather taciturn, and full of a gentle dignity. I could perceive that mother was making an energetic effort to "place" her: by which I do not mean that she was trying to "put her in her place," by any means; but she was endeavoring to determine the social and personal sphere in which she probably belonged. Was she, in a word, less than Mrs. Mainwaring, or greater, or an equal? One would be pretty safe in assuming that she was not less. Further than that it would be rash to prophesy. She had force, intellect, character, and singular individuality.

While we three were still in the midst of our first conversation, and the servants were carrying Miss Forrestal's trunk up to her rooms, who should stride in but the lord of the manor, John Mainwaring, Esquire, fresh from the harness-room and the groom's pipe, humming an air in his resonant barytone, and whistling, between the catches, to his gray collie, his inseparable companion by night and day! He did not see our visitor until he was within five feet of her: then he looked with a start, and her tranquil eyes met his.

I wish I were a short-hand writer. I would have taken down the scene word for word as it happened. John, in spite of his lack of polish, his lusty voice, his careless attire, and his fondness for the society of English Tom, is a gentleman to the marrow of his sturdy bones. This fact frequently produces complications and embarrassments from which he would otherwise be free.

The careless expression of his face underwent an instant transformation. The blood rushed to his cheeks and forehead. He straightened his broad shoulders, and drew himself up as rigid as a soldier on parade. He did not attempt to speak, nor did he turn his gaze from her. I