se at college, whither he intended to go as soon as he could get the
means.

'As my father was with his regiment abroad at this time, and my mother
and sister were making a round of visits amongst our Scotch friends, I
stayed a long time with the Merryweathers. They were very pleasant
people, and had an agreeable circle of acquaintance.

'But that has nothing to do with my story. The evening before I left
them to return home, my friend, Mr Jones, managed to be alone with me;
how, I never found out, for he ought to have been with the boys--and
committed a similar misdemeanour to that of poor Rowland Prothero. He
had unfortunately lost his heart to me--so he said, and was constrained
to tell me so. Would I think of him, if, in the course of time, he could
enter the church and marry me?

'Now I had the world before me, a happy home, a prospect of a certain
independence, and, I suppose, a sufficient share of personal
attractions. I had never considered whether I could like this young man
or not; but I had well considered that when I married, I must have
talent, position, personal beauty, and a hundred other visionary
attributes in my husband. I was of a most imaginative, and at the same
time, ambitious temperament; and on the one hand, thought a great poet
or warrior would fall to my lot, and on the other, that a prince of the
blood royal was not too good for me.

'Your pride, my dear Freda, is too matter-of-fact, as is your general
character, thoroughly to understand me. At that time I was touched and
flattered by the devotion of this young man, and felt, that had he been
differently placed, and had he more of the attributes either of station
or romance about him, I might have taken him under my august
consideration; but as I had never even looked upon him in the light of a
lover, or supposed it possible that he could be one, I at once, and
decidedly refused him.

'I shall never forget the pained and melancholy expression of his
features when I did so, or the few words he uttered. He said that he had
not ventured to hope for a different answer, though he had dared to
speak, and that his one slight prospect of happiness had vanished. He
had now nothing but a life of labour before him, without a gleam of hope
to cheer his way, but that he should think of me always, and of the
happy hours we had passed together. I felt so sorry for him that I could
really say nothing, either to cheer or discourage him. He simply asked
m