tion of withdrawing.
Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heartfelt words:

'Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to be offended, if I dare
to ask whether anything could induce you to view with more indulgence
one who sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you.'

'You are the last person whose feelings I should wish to hurt. Let us
not revive a conversation to which, I can assure you, neither of us
looks back with satisfaction.'

'Is there, then, no hope? Must I ever live with the consciousness of
being the object of your scorn?'

'Oh, no, no! As you will speak, let us understand each other. However I
may approve of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to repent the
manner in which it was conveyed. I cannot, without the most unfeigned
regret, I cannot for a moment remember that I have addressed a
bitter word to one to whom I am under the greatest obligations. If my
apologies----'

'Pray, pray be silent!'

'I must speak. If my apologies, my complete, my most humble apologies,
can be any compensation for treating with such lightness feelings which
I now respect, and offers by which I now consider myself honoured,
accept them!'

'O, Miss Dacre! that fatal word, respect!'

'We have warmer words in this house for you. You are now our friend.'

'I dare not urge a suit which may offend you; yet, if you could read my
heart, I sometimes think that we might be happy. Let me hope!'

'My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will not ever offend me,
because I am sure you will not ever wish to do it. There are few people
in this world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard than yourself.
I am convinced, I am conscious, that when we met I did sufficient
justice neither to your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible for
me to express with what satisfaction I now feel that you have resumed
that place in the affections of this family to which you have an
hereditary right. I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful, for all
that you feel with regard to me individually; and believe me, in again
expressing my regret that it is not in my power to view you in any other
light than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing that conduct
which will conduce as much to your happiness as my own.'

'My happiness, Miss Dacre!'

'Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again endeavour to depreciate
the feelings which you entertain for me, and by which, ever remember,
I feel honoured; but these very f