and Walter, and the congeniality which had drawn them into such close companionship that the most trifling minutiæ of the daily life of each was unfolded to the other, in their discussions always assimilating in the end, though they might reach it by different opinions on the way. Often had she watched them from her chamber window as they strolled down the avenue, breaking a twig from the trees, or so engrossed in conversation they turned neither to the right nor left; or sitting on the greensward in front of the house watching the play of the fountain where she occasionally joined them—Ponto lazily stretched upon the grass drowzily opening his eyes when Mademoiselle Tabby marched up in a warlike attitude and then contented herself with performing a dress parade around his tail—had she heard them discourse of men and things with the sageness of philosophers, and indulge in anecdotes that sent their merry peals of laughter through the air. She could endure this suspense no longer, and resolved to tell Walter the whole, if she could find a way to begin, but that was a puzzle. Innumerable obstacles beset her. She would not in any case betray any other feeling for Ernest than as his friend, which she hadn't! therefore, what need of precaution? She was entangled in a web, not so easily brushed away as spun.
Of course he had no particular regard for her except as his friend's sister. Certainly not. Then it was not such a serious affair after all, he merely invited her to ride, and she refused, not so courteously as she ought, and the reason? That included
