358 THE SMUGGLER. 



asked himself, again and again, " Will the time ever come, I; 

 when I shall have vengeance for all this?" 



The evening passed gloomily, and in consequence slowly; 

 and at length, when the clock showed that it still wanted a 

 quarter to ten, Digby rose and bade the little party good night, : 

 saying that he was somewhat tired, and had letters to write. 



" I shall go to bed too,'' said Sir Robert Croyland, ringing i 

 for his candle. But Digby quitted the room, first; and Zara 

 could not refrain from saying, in a low tone, as she took leave 

 of her father for the night, and went out of the room with 

 him, " There is nothing amiss with Edith, I trust, my dear 

 father?" 



"Oh! dear, no!" answered Sir Robert Croyland, with as 

 careless an air as he could assume. " Nothing at all, but that 

 she does not come home to-night, and perhaps may not to- 

 morrow." 



Still unsatisfied, Zara sought her own room; and when her 

 maid had half performed her usual functions for the night, she 

 dismissed her, saying, that she would do the rest herself. 

 When alone, however, Zara Croylaud did not proceed to un- 

 dress, but remained thinking over all the events of the day, 

 with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes cast 

 down. The idea of Edith and her fate mingled with other 

 images. The words that Digby had spoken, the increas- 

 ing tenderness of his tone and manner, came back to me- 

 mory, and made her heart flutter with sensations unknown 

 till then, She felt alarmed at her own feelings; she knew 

 not well what they were; but still she said to herself, at 

 every pause of thought, "It ail nonsense! He will go 

 away and forget me ; and I shall forget him ! These soldiers 

 have always some tale of love for every woman's ear. It is 

 their habit, almost their nature." Did she believe her own 

 conclusions? Not entirely; but she tried to believe them, 

 and that was enough for the present. 



Some minutes after, however, when a light knock was heard 

 at the door, she started almost as if some one had struck her; 

 and Fancy, who is always drawing upon improbability, made 

 her believe, for an instant, that it might be Digby. She said, 

 "Come in, J> however, with tolerable calmness; and the next 

 instant, the figure of her aunt presented itself, with eagerness 

 in her looks and importance in her whole air. 



