iffany._ Yes, ma'am,--but I assure you--

_Helen._ What! you stay to be whispered to again, I suppose. [_Exit
Tiffany._

_Charles._ Let me explain this,--oh, Helen--can you be surprised?

_Helen._ No, sir, I can't be surprised at any thing after what I have
just witnessed--

_Charles._ On my soul, it was excess of joy at hearing you still lov'd
me, that led me into this confounded scrape.

_Helen._ Sir, you should not believe it--I don't love you. I wont love
you,--and after what I have just seen, you can't expect I should love
you--

_Charles._ Helen! Helen! you make no allowance for the fears of a man
who loves you to distraction. I have borne a great deal, and can bear
but very little more--

_Helen._ Poor man! you're sadly loaded with grievances, to be sure; and
by and by, I suppose, like a horse or a mule, or some such stubborn
animal, having more than you can bear, you'll kick a little, and plunge
a little, and then down on your _knees_ again!

_Charles._ I gloried even in that humble posture, while you taught me to
believe you loved me.

_Helen._ 'Tis true, my heart was once your own, but I never can, nor
ought to forgive you--for thinking me capable of being unfaithful to
you.

_Charles._ Dearest dear Helen! and has your anger then no other cause?
surely you could not blame a resentment which was the offspring of my
fond affection?

_Helen._ No! to be sure I couldn't, who could!--but what should I not
have to dread from the violence of your temper, if I consented--to run
away with you?

_Charles._ Run away with me!--no!--zounds I've a chaise in waiting--

_Helen._ Have you?--then pray let it wait,--no! no! Charles--though I
haven't scrupled to own an affection for you, I have too much respect
for the world's opinion,--let us wait with patience,--time may rectify
that impetuosity of character, which is now, I own, my dread; think of
it, Charles, and beware; for affection is a frail flower, reared by the
hand of gentleness, and perishes as surely by the shocks of violence as
by the more gradual poison of neglect.

_Charles._ Dearest Helen! I will cherish it in my heart--'tis a _rough_
soil I own, but 'tis a _warm_ one; and when the hand of delicacy shall
have cultivated this flower that is rooted there, the blossom shall be
everlasting love!

_Helen._ Ah you men!--you men! but--I think I may be induced to try
you.--Meantime, accept my hand, dear Charles, as a pledge of my heart,
and as the ass