er father from a sorrow which would,
she said, if it lasted, bring him to his grave. "But, Mary," she
continued, "you must now, you know, cease any joking about me and Mr
Bold; you must now say no more about that; I am not ashamed to beg
this favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there can
never be anything further between us;" and this she said with a staid
and solemn air, quite worthy of Jephthah's daughter or of Iphigenia
either.

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument. That
Eleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf of her father, to Bold's
better feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it seemed quite natural
that he should relent, overcome by such filial tears, and by so much
beauty; but, to her thinking, it was at any rate equally natural, that
having relented, John should put his arm round his mistress's waist,
and say: "Now having settled that, let us be man and wife, and all
will end happily!" Why his good nature should not be rewarded, when
such reward would operate to the disadvantage of none, Mary, who had
more sense than romance, could not understand; and she said as much.

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent speech to
support her own view of the question: she could not condescend, she
said, to ask such a favour on any other terms than those proposed.
Mary might, perhaps, think her high-flown, but she had her own ideas,
and she could not submit to sacrifice her self-respect.

"But I am sure you love him;--don't you?" pleaded Mary; "and I am sure
he loves you better than anything in the world."

Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a tear came to each eye,
and she could not; so she pretended to blow her nose, and walked to
the window, and made a little inward call on her own courage, and
finding herself somewhat sustained, said sententiously: "Mary, this
is nonsense."

"But you do love him," said Mary, who had followed her friend to the
window, and now spoke with her arms close wound round the other's
waist. "You do love him with all your heart,--you know you do; I defy
you to deny it."

"I--" commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute the charge;
but the intended falsehood stuck in her throat, and never came to
utterance. She could not deny her love, so she took plentifully
to tears, and leant upon her friend's bosom and sobbed there, and
protested that, love or no love, it would make no difference in her
resolve, and called