spicions.

H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which
you were a party? Shall I repeat it?

S. I had rather not hear it!

H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?

S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort.

H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn't * * * * * * * * *
(as I heard she did) she said "Oh, there's nothing in that, for Sarah
very often * * * * * *," and your doing so before company, is only a
trifling addition to the sport.

S. I'll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you.

H. Then she'll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were
"very persevering in your resistance to gay young men," and had been
"several times obliged to ring the bell?" Did you always ring it? Or
did you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the
demureness of your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have
you two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your
natural one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an
actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you
not, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C----
came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he'd take you
for a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being
TAKEN for a light character? Oh! Sarah!

S. I'll stay and hear this no longer.

H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?

S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely.

H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for
him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another
thing I had to say--be what you will, I love you to distraction! You
are the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that
feeling was so new to me, and so delicious, that it "will never from my
heart." Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the
wilderness of my life; and though thou should'st turn out a weed, I'll
not fling thee from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread
to think--wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with
rags, disease, and infamy, I'd clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die
with thee, my love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress!

S. NEVER.

H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you--nor I will not.

THE RECONCILIATION

H. I have then lost your friendship?

S. Nothing tends more