ons, and him entirely and altogether. There now!'

'And why?'

'Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill-natured! It's
no jest to me!' said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to
the fire.

'I'm very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,' I replied. 'You love Mr.
Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and
loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him
without that, probably; and with it you wouldn't, unless he possessed the
four former attractions.'

'No, to be sure not: I should only pity him--hate him, perhaps, if he
were ugly, and a clown.'

'But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world:
handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from
loving them?'

'If there be any, they are out of my way: I've seen none like Edgar.'

'You may see some; and he won't always be handsome, and young, and may
not always be rich.'

'He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would
speak rationally.'

'Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry
Mr. Linton.'

'I don't want your permission for that--I _shall_ marry him: and yet you
have not told me whether I'm right.'

'Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And
now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be
pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will
escape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable
one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and easy:
where is the obstacle?'

'_Here_! and _here_!' replied Catherine, striking one hand on her
forehead, and the other on her breast: 'in whichever place the soul
lives. In my soul and in my heart, I'm convinced I'm wrong!'

'That's very strange! I cannot make it out.'

'It's my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I'll explain it: I
can't do it distinctly; but I'll give you a feeling of how I feel.'

She seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder and graver,
and her clasped hands trembled.

'Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?' she said, suddenly, after some
minutes' reflection.

'Yes, now and then,' I answered.

'And so do I. I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me
ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me,
like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is