The powder-haired servant again took him in tow, and ushered him out of the book-room, across the hall through the billiard-room, and into the library; gave him a chair, and then brought him a newspaper, giving him to understand that Miss Wyndham would soon be with him.

The parson took the paper in his hands, but he did not trouble himself much with the contents of it.  What was he to say to Miss Wyndham?—­how was he to commence?  He had never gone love-making for another in his life; and now, at his advanced age, it really did come rather strange to him.  And then he began to think whether she were short or tall, dark or fair, stout or slender.  It certainly was very odd, but, in all their conversations on the subject, Lord Ballindine had never given him any description of his inamorata.  Mr Armstrong, however, had not much time to make up his mind on any of these points, for the door opened, and Miss Wyndham entered.

She was dressed in black, for she was, of course, still in mourning for her brother; but, in spite of her sable habiliments, she startled the parson by the brilliance of her beauty.  There was a quiet dignity of demeanour natural to Fanny Wyndham; a well-balanced pose, and a grace of motion, which saved her from ever looking awkward or confused.  She never appeared to lose her self-possession.  Though never arrogant, she seemed always to know what was due to herself.  No insignificant puppy could ever have attempted to flirt with her.

When summoned by the servant to meet a strange clergyman alone in the library, at the request of Lord Cashel, she felt that his visit must have some reference to her lover; indeed, her thoughts for the last few days had run on little else.  She had made up her mind to talk to her cousin about him; then, her cousin had matured that determination by making love to her himself:  then, she had talked to him of Lord Ballindine, and he had promised to talk to his father on the same subject; and she had since been endeavouring to bring herself to make one other last appeal to her uncle’s feelings.  Her mind was therefore, full of Lord Ballindine, when she walked into the library.  But her face was no tell-tale; her gait and demeanour were as dignified as though she had no anxious love within her heart—­no one grand desire, to disturb the even current of her blood.  She bowed her beautiful head to Mr Armstrong as she walked into the room, and, sitting down herself, begged him to take a chair.

The parson had by no means made up his mind as to what he was to say to the young lady, so he shut his eyes, and rushed at once into the middle of his subject.  “Miss Wyndham,” he said, “I have come a long way to call on you, at the request of a friend of yours—­a very dear and old friend of mine—­at the request of Lord Ballindine.”

Fanny’s countenance became deeply suffused at her lover’s name, but the parson did not observe it; indeed he hardly ventured to look in her face.  She merely said, in a voice which seemed to him to be anything but promising, “Well, sir?” The truth was, she did not know what to say.  Had she dared, she would have fallen on her knees before her lover’s friend, and sworn to him how well she loved him.