She looked steadfastly out. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds.
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