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One was Frederick Massingbird, and the young lady
on his arm was his cousin, Sibylla West, a girl young and fascinating as
was Rachel. Mr. Frederick Massingbird had been suspected of a liking,
more than ordinary, for this young lady; but he had protested in
Rachel's hearing, as in that of others, that his was only cousin's love.
Some impulse prompted Rachel to glide in at a field-gate which she was
then passing, and stand behind the hedge until they should have gone
by. Possibly she did not care to be seen.
It was a still night, and their voices were borne distinctly to Rachel
as they slowly advanced. The first words to reach her came from the
young lady.
"You will be going out after him, Frederick. That will be the next thing
I expect."
"Sibylla," was the answer, and his accents bore that earnest, tender,
confidential tone which of itself alone betrays love, "be you very sure
of one thing: that I go neither there nor elsewhere without taking you."
"Oh, Frederick, is not John enough to go?"
"If I saw a better prospect there than here, I should follow him.


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