THE SMUGGLER. 343 



Sir Ed ward Digby answered gaily, for it was his object to 

 keep his host in good humour; at least, for the time. He 

 denied the possibility of spoiling a lady, while he acknow- 

 ledged his propensity to attempt impossibilities in that direc- 

 tion ; and at the same time, with a good grace, and a frankness, 

 real yet assumed, for his words were true, though they might 

 not have been spoken just then, under any other circumstances, 

 he admitted that, of all people whom he should like to spoil, 

 the fair being who had just left them was the foremost. The 

 words were too decided to be mistaken. Sir Edward Digby 

 was evidently a gentleman, and known to be a man of honour. 

 No man of honour trifles with a woman's affections ; and Sir 

 Robert Croyland, wise in this instance, if not in others, did 

 as all wise fathers would do, held his tongue for a time that 

 the matter might cool and harden, and then changed the 

 subject. 



Digby, however, had grown thoughtful. Did he repent 

 what he had said? No, certainly not. He wished, indeed, 

 that he had not been driven to say it so soon; for there were 

 doubts in his own mind whether Zara herself were altogether 

 won. She was frank, she was kind, she trusted him, she 

 acted with him ; but there was at times a shade of reserve 

 about her, coming suddenly, which seemed to him as a warn- 

 ing. She had from the first taken such pains to ensure that 

 her confidence, the confidence of circumstances, should not 

 be misunderstood; she had responded so little to the first 

 approaches of love, while she had yielded so readily to those 

 of friendship, that there was a doubt in his mind which made 

 him uneasy; and, every now and then, her uncle's account of 

 her character rung in his ear, and made him think " I have 

 found this artillery more dangerous than I expected." 



What a pity it is that uncles will not hold their tongues I 



At length, he bethought him that it would be as well to 

 order the horses, which was accordingly done; and some time 

 before they were ready, the fair girl herself appeared, and con- 

 tinued walking up and down the garden with her father and 

 their guest, looking very lovely, both from excitement, which 

 gave a varying colour to her cheek, and from intense feelings, 

 which, denied the lips, looked out with deeper soul from the 

 eyes. 



"I think, Zara," said Sir Robert Croyland, when it was 



