ing a
fine, brisk, dry morning and the ground hard with a frost. Here, being
secure from observation, I showed her how I had settled matters with Mr.
Godwin, dividing the estate in such a manner as would enable her to draw
what funds she pleased, without let, hindrance, or any inconvenient
question.

At this she draws a deep sigh, fixing her eyes sadly enough on the
perspective, as if she were thinking rather of her absent lover than the
business in hand. Somewhat nettled to find she prized my efforts on her
behalf so lightly, I proceeded to show her the advantages of this
arrangement, adding that, to make her property the surer, I had
consented to manage both her affairs and Mr. Godwin's when they were
married.

"And so," says I, in conclusion, "you may have what money you want, and
dispose of it as you will, and I'll answer for it Mr. Godwin shall never
be a penny the wiser."

"Do what you find is necessary," says she, with passion. "But for
mercy's sake say no more on this matter to me. For all these hints do
stab my heart like sharp knives."

Not reading rightly the cause of her petulance, I was at first disposed
to resent it; but, reflecting that a maiden is no more responsible for
her tongue than a donkey for his heels in this season of life (but both
must be for ever a-flying out at some one when parted from the object of
their affections), I held my peace; and so we walked on in sullen
silence for a space; then, turning suddenly upon me, she cries in a
trembling voice:

"Won't you say something to me? Can't you see that I am unhappy?"

And now, seeing her eyes full of tears, her lips quivering, and her face
drawn with pain, my heart melted in a moment; so, taking her arm under
mine and pressing it to my side, I bade her be of good cheer, for her
lover would return in a day or two at the outside.

"No, not of him,--not of him," she entreats. "Talk to me of indifferent
things."

So, thinking to turn her thoughts to another furrow, I told her how I
had been to visit her father at Greenwich.

"My father," says she, stopping short. "Oh, what a heartless, selfish
creature am I! I have not thought of him in my happiness. Nay, had he
been dead I could not have forgot him more. You saw him--is he well?"

"As hearty as you could wish, and full of love for you, and rejoiced
beyond measure to know you are to marry a brave, honest gentleman." Then
I told how we had drunk to their health, and how her father had s