this?" said she to Mr. Wetherley.

"No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?" replied Zephyr, who was not a
reading man.

"It is John Meal's 'Rachel Dyer.'"

"Oh, indeed! No, indeed. I have not read it!"

"What have you read, Mr. Wetherley?" inquired Fanny, glancing through the
book which she held in her hand.

"Oh, indeed!--" he began. Then he seemed to undergo some internal spasm.
He dropped his hat, slid his chair to the side of Fanny's, and said, "Ah,
Miss Newt, how can you ask me at such a moment?"

Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face.

"Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley?"

"Ah, Miss Newt, how can you when you know my feelings? Did you not carry
my bouquet at the theatre last evening? Have you not long authorized me
by your treatment to declare--"

"Stop, Mr. Wetherley," said Fanny, calmly. "The day is warm--let us
be cool. Don't say any thing which you will regret to remember. Don't
mistake any thing that I have done as an indication of--"

"Oh, Miss Newt," interrupted Zephyr, "how can you say such things? Hear
me but one word. I assure you that I most deeply, tenderly, truly--"

"Mr. Wetherley," said Fanny, putting down the book and speaking very
firmly, "I really can not sit still and hear you proceed. You are
laboring under a great misapprehension. You must be aware that I have
never in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that I--"

"I must speak!" burst in the impetuous Zephyr. "My feelings forbid
silence! Great Heavens! Miss Newt, you really have no idea--I am sure
you have no idea--you can not have any idea of the ardor with which for
a long, long time I have--"

"Mr. Wetherley," said Fanny Newt, darker and cooler than ever, "it is
useless to prolong this conversation. I can not consent to hear you
declare that--"

"But you haven't heard me declare it," replied Zephyr, vehemently. "It's
the very thing I am trying to do, and you won't let me. You keep cutting
me off just as I am saying how I--"

"You need go no further, Sir," said Miss Newt, coldly, rising and
standing by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and confused,
crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through his
hair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together. "I understand,
Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only--"

"Just what I don't want to hear! Oh dear me! Please, please, Miss Newt!"
entreated Zephyr Wetherley.

"Mr. Wetherley," interrupte