d man; and pray who may that improper author be?" "Why,"
quoth Gratian, "Miss Lydia Prateapace wouldn't, I know, have me
recommend her any _improper_ author." "Oh, no, no!--I don't ask with any
intention to read him, I assure you," she replied. Gratian went on,
"Believe me, he is a very old author, a Roman." "A Roman indeed!" she
quite vociferated--"one of those horrid Papists, I suppose! A Roman is
he? Then the Curate--why should he read Papistical books, and learn such
tricks from them?" It was in vain for Gratian to endeavour to explain.
Miss Prateapace had but one notion of the Romans--that there never was
one that had not kissed the Pope's toe. So here he very wisely took
another tack, and drawing her a little aside, as if he would not have
even the very hedges hear him, and with no little affected caution,
looking about him, he said, in a half whisper--"Now let me, my dear
young lady, tell you a bit of a secret. All this is an idle tale, and is
just as I have told you; but this I tell you, that to my certain
knowledge, the Curate's _affections_"--laying stress on the word
affections--"are seriously engaged;" at which Miss Lydia stared, and
looked the personification of curiosity. "Engaged is he, did you say?"
"No, _he_ is not engaged," said Gratian, "but I happen to know that his
affections are--" "Then," quoth she, "I suppose he has declared as much
to the object." "Ah--no!--there is the very point--you are quite
mistaken--she has not the slightest suspicion of it." This was scarcely
credible to the lady's notion of love-making, but the earnest manner of
Gratian was every thing. "No," said he; "he is a most exemplary
conscientious young man, and so far avoids the making any show of his
feelings, that he affects, I really believe, more indifference towards
that lady than to any other. He tells me that he thinks it would not be
honourable in his present circumstances and position to engage _her_
affections; but he looks forward, as his prospects are fair." Miss Lydia
was interested--pondered awhile, and then said, "You dear good man, do
tell me who the lady is!" "No," replied Gratian, "I dare not betray a
secret; but be assured, my dear Miss Lydia Prateapace, that if our
Curate marries, he will make his choice not very far from this." "You
don't say so!" cried she: "Really now, who can it be?" "I can only say
one thing more," replied our fox Gratian, "and perhaps that is saying
too much; but--" whispering in her ear-