t beating and throbbing fiercely, tears rushing forth in spite
of him, his voice almost choking with feeling, poor Pen had said those
words which he could withhold no more, and flung himself and his whole
store of love, and admiration, and ardour at the feet of this mature
beauty. Is he the first who has done so? Have none before or after
him staked all their treasure of life, as a savage does his land and
possessions against a draught of the fair-skins' fire-water, or a couple
of bauble eyes?

"Does your mother know of this, Arthur?" said Miss Fotheringay, slowly.
He seized her hand madly and kissed it a thousand times. She did not
withdraw it. "Does the old lady know it?" Miss Costigan thought to
herself, "well, perhaps she may," and then she remembered what a
handsome diamond cross Mrs. Pendennis had on the night of the play, and
thought, "Sure 'twill go in the family."

"Calm yourself, dear Arthur," she said, in her low rich voice, and
sniffled sweetly and gravely upon him. Then, with her disengaged hand,
she put the hair lightly off his throbbing forehead. He was in such a
rapture and whirl of happiness that he could hardly speak. At last he
gasped out, "My mother has seen you, and admires you beyond measure.
She will learn to love you soon: who can do otherwise? She will love you
because I do."

"'Deed then, I think you do," said Miss Costigan, perhaps with a sort of
pity for Pen.

Think she did! Of course here Mr. Pen went off into a rhapsody through
which, as we have perfect command over our own feelings, we have no
reason to follow the lad. Of course, love, truth, and eternity were
produced: and words were tried but found impossible to plumb the
tremendous depth of his affection. This speech, we say, is no business
of ours. It was most likely not very wise, but what right have we to
overhear? Let the poor boy fling out his simple heart at the woman's
feet, and deal gently with him. It is best to love wisely, no doubt: but
to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all. Some of
us can't: and are proud of our impotence too.

At the end of his speech Pen again kissed the imperial hand with
rapture--and I believe it was at this very moment, and while Mrs. Dean
and Doctor Portman were engaged in conversation, that young Master
Ridley Roset, her son, pulled his mother by the back of her capacious
dress and said--

"I say, ma! look up there"--and he waggled his innocent head.

That was, indeed