“But he is so dull, Rose.”

“I really do not think so, Annette.  There is not so much flash about him, if I may use the word, as about Mr. Gray.  But as to his being dull, I must beg to differ with you.  To me, his conversation is always interesting.”

“It never is so to me.  And, besides all that, his tastes and mine are as widely different as the poles.  Why, Rose, if you become his wife, you will sink into obscurity at once.  He never can make any impression on society.  It is not in him.”

“Rather make no impression on society at all, than a false or disgraceful one, say I,” was the firm reply of Rose.

“You cannot, certainly, mean to say,” returned her friend, “that the impression made upon society by Mr. Gray is either a false or disgraceful one.”

“I should be sorry to make that assertion, for I do not believe such to be the case,” Rose replied.  “What I mean is, that I can read Mr. Hambleton’s true character, and I know it to be based upon fixed and high-toned principles.  These can never make the woman who truly loves him unhappy.  They give place to no moral contingencies, by which hopes are so often wrecked, and hearts broken.  Now, in regard to Mr. Gray, there is nothing in his character, so far as I can, read it, upon which to predicate safe calculations of this kind.  He is intelligent, and highly interesting as a companion.  His personal appearance and his address are attractive.  But all below the exterior is hidden.  The moral qualities of the man never show themselves.  I feel that to give my heart to such a one would be risking too much.  Of course, I must decline his offer.”

“Indeed, indeed, Rose, I think you are very foolish!”

“Time will show, Annette.”

“Yes, time will show,” was the prophetic response.  And time did show that Rose made a right choice, when she accepted the offer of James Hambleton, and gave him, with her hand, a warm, true heart.

THE FORTUNE-HUNTER.

“I KNOW a young lady who will suit you exactly.”

“Indeed!”

“It’s a fact.  She is just the thing.”

“Is she rich?”

“Of course.”

“How rich?”

“Worth some fifty thousand dollars.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly.  Her father died about a year ago, and she was his only child.  Her mother has been dead many years.  The old man was well off, and his daughter received all of his property, and, as she is of age, she has it all under her own control.”

“Is she handsome?”

“Just so-so.  But that don’t matter a great deal.  Gold is beautiful”

“Exactly.  And intelligent?”

“I’ve seen smarter girls.  But that’s all the better, you know.”

“Yes.  Well now, who is she?  That’s the next question.”

“Her name is Margaretta Riston, and she is now living with an old aunt in Sycamore street.”