I once had it in my head to have found the widow Bevis other employment.  And I believe she would have been as well pleased with my company as to go to church; for she seemed irresolute when I told her that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day.  But having her things on, (as the women call every thing,) and her aunt Moore expecting her company, she thought it best to go—­lest it should look oddly, you know, whispered she, to one who was above regarding how it looked.

So here am I in my dining-room; and have nothing to do but to write till they return.

And what will be my subject thinkest thou?  Why, the old beaten one to be sure; self-debate—­through temporary remorse:  for the blow being not struck, her guardian angel is redoubling his efforts to save her.

If it be not that, [and yet what power should her guardian angel have over me?] I don’t know what it is that gives a check to my revenge, whenever I meditate treason against so sovereign a virtue.  Conscience is dead and gone, as I told thee; so it cannot be that.  A young conscience growing up, like the phoenix, from the ashes of the old one, it cannot be, surely.  But if it were, it would be hard, if I could not overlay a young conscience.

Well, then, it must be love, I fancy.  Love itself, inspiring love of an object so adorable—­some little attention possibly paid likewise to thy whining arguments in her favour.

Let love then be allowed to be the moving principle; and the rather, as love naturally makes the lover loth to disoblige the object of its flame; and knowing, that to an offence of the meditated kind will be a mortal offence to her, cannot bear that I should think of giving it.

Let love and me talk together a little on this subject—­be it a young conscience, or love, or thyself, Jack, thou seest that I am for giving every whiffler audience.  But this must be the last debate on this subject; for is not her fate in a manner at its crisis?  And must not my next step be an irretrievable one, tend it which way it will?

***

And now the debate is over.

A thousand charming things, (for love is gentler than conscience,) has this little urchin suggested in her favour.  He pretended to know both our hearts:  and he would have it, that though my love was a prodigious strong and potent love; and though it has the merit of many months, faithful service to plead, and has had infinite difficulties to struggle with; yet that it is not the right sort of love.

Right sort of love!—­A puppy!—­But, with due regard to your deityship, said I, what merits has she with you, that you should be of her party?  Is her’s, I pray you, a right sort of love?  Is it love at all?  She don’t pretend that it is.  She owns not your sovereignty.  What a d—–­l I moves you, to plead thus earnestly for a rebel, who despises your power?