88 THE SMUGGLER. 



" She is not the light coquette her uncle represents her, 5 ' 

 he thought, as they walked on: " there is a true and feeling 

 heart beneath; one whose affections, if strongly excited and 

 then disappointed, might make her as sad and cheerless as this 

 other poor girl." 



He had not much time to indulge either in such meditations 

 or in conversation with his fair companion; for, when they 

 were within about a mile of the house, old Mr. Croyland was 

 seen advancing towards them with his usual brisk air and quick 

 pace. 



"Well, young people, well," he said, coming forward, "I 

 bring the soberness of age to temper the lightness of youth." 



"Oh! we are all very sober, uncle," replied Zara. " It is 

 only those who stay in the house drinking wine who are 

 otherwise." 



"I have not been drinking wine, saucy girl," answered 

 Mr. Croyland; " but come, Edith, I want to speak with you; 

 and, as the road is too narrow for four, we'll pair off, as the 

 rascals who ruin the country in the House of Commons term 

 it. Troop on, Miss Zara. There's a gallant cavalier who 

 will give you his arm, doubtless, if you will ask it." 



" Indeed I shall do no such thing," replied the fair lady, 

 walking on; and, while Edith and her uncle came slowly 

 after, Sir Edward Digby and the youngest Miss Croyland 

 proceeded on their way, remaining silent for some minutes, 

 though each, to say the truth, was busily thinking how the 

 conversation which had been interrupted might best be re- 

 newed. It was Zara who spoke first, however, looking sud- 

 denly up in her companion's face with one of her bright and 

 sparkling smiles, and saying, " It is a strange house, is it not, 

 Sir Edward, and we are a strange family?'' 



"Nay, I do not see that," replied the young officer. 

 " With every new person whose acquaintance we make, we 

 are like a traveller for the first time in a foreign country, and 

 must learn the secrets of the land before we can find our way 

 rightly." 



" Oh! secrets enough here," cried Zara. " Every one has 

 a secret but myself. I have none, thank God! My good 

 father is fall of them. Edith, you see, has hers. My uncle 

 is loaded with one even now, and eager to disburden himself; 

 but my aunt's are the most curious of all, for they are ever- 



