“Mother, dear mother,” cried Amabel, flinging herself on her knees before her, “I implore you not to add to my father’s present distress.  I might not have been able to conquer my attachment to Maurice Wyvil, but now that I find he is the Earl of Rochester, I regard him with abhorrence.”

“If I could believe you sincere,” said Mrs. Bloundel, “I might be induced to spare your father the pain which the knowledge of this unfortunate affair would necessarily inflict.”

“I am sincere,—­indeed I am,” replied Amabel.

“To prove that the earl could not have had honourable intentions towards you, Amabel,” said the doctor, “I may mention that he is at this moment urging his suit with Mistress Mallet,—­a young heiress.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Amabel.”

“I was in attendance upon Mistress Stewart, the king’s present favourite, the day before yesterday,” continued Hodges, “and heard his majesty entreat her to use her influence with Mistress Mallet in Rochester’s behalf.  After this, you cannot doubt the nature of his intentions towards yourself.”

“I cannot—­I cannot,” rejoined Amabel.  “He is perfidy itself.  But is Mistress Mallet very beautiful, doctor?”

“Very beautiful, and very rich,” he replied, “and the earl is desperately in love with her.  I heard him declare laughingly to the king, that if she would not consent to marry him, he would carry her off.”

“Just what he said to me,” exclaimed Amabel—­“perjured and faithless that he is!”

“Harp on that string, doctor,” whispered Mrs. Bloundel.  “You understand her feelings exactly.”

“Strangely enough,” pursued the doctor, who, having carefully examined the miniature, had opened the back of the case, and could not repress a smile at what he beheld—­“strangely enough, this very picture will convince you of the earl’s inconstancy.  It was evidently designed for Mistress Mallet, and, as she would not accept it, transferred to you.”

“How do you know this, sir?” inquired Amabel, in a mortified tone.

“Hear what is written within it,” answered Hodges, laying the open case before her, and reading as follows:  “’To the sole possessor of his heart, the fair Mistress Mallet, this portrait is offered by her devoted slave—­ROCHESTER.’  ‘The sole possessor of his heart!’ So you have no share in it, you perceive, Amabel.  ‘Her devoted slave!’ Is he your slave likewise?  Ha! ha!”

“It is his writing,” cried Amabel.  “This note,” she added, producing a billet, “is in the same hand.  My eyes are indeed open to his treachery.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Hodges, “and if I can preserve you from the snares of this noble libertine, I shall rejoice as much as in curing your brother of the plague.  But can you rely upon yourself, in case the earl should make another attempt to see you?”

“I can,” she averred confidently.

“In that case there is nothing to apprehend,” rejoined Hodges; “and I think it better on many accounts not to mention the subject to your father.  It would only distract his mind, and prevent him from duly discharging the painful task he has undertaken.  Were I in your place, Amabel, I would not only forget my present perfidious lover, but would instantly bestow my affections on some worthy person.”