“No; but, then, he is so dull.  I should die if I had no other company.”

“Indeed, my child,” Aunt Riston said, in a serious tone,” you ought to make the effort to esteem and relish the society of those who have evidently some stability of character, and whose conversation has in it the evidence of mature observation, combined with sound and virtuous principles, more than you do the flippant nonsense of mere ladies’ men, or selfish, unprincipled fortune-hunters.”

“Indeed, aunt, you are too severe on my favourites!” And Margaretta laughed gaily.

But to her aunt there was something sad in the sound of that laugh.  It seemed like the knell of long and fondly cherished hopes.

“What do you think of Margaretta Riston, Mary?” asked Thomas Fielding of his sister, on the next evening after the visit just mentioned.

“Why do you ask so seriously, brother?” the sister said, looking into his face, with a smile playing about her lips.

“For a serious reason, sister.  Can you guess what it is?”

“Perhaps so, and therefore I will not tax your modesty so far as to make you confess it.”

“Very well, Mary.  And now answer my question.  What do you think of Margaretta?”

“I know nothing against her, brother.”

“Nothing against her!  Don’t you know any thing in her favour?”

“Well, perhaps I do.  She is said to be worth some fifty thousand dollars.”

“Nonsense, Mary!  What do I care about her fifty thousand dollars?  Don’t you know any thing else in her favour?”

“Why, yes, brother.  As long as you seem so serious about the matter, I think Margaretta a fine girl.  She is amiable in disposition—­is well educated—­tolerably good-looking, and, I think, ordinarily intelligent.”

“Ordinarily intelligent!”

“Yes.  Certainly there is nothing extraordinary about her.”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, brother, what next?”

“Why, simply, Mary, I like Margaretta very much.  The oftener I see her, the more am I drawn towards her.  To tell the plain, homely truth, I love her.”

“And don’t care any thing about her fifty thousand dollars?”

“No Mary, I don’t think I do.  Indeed, if I know my own feelings, I would rather she were not worth a dollar.”

“And why so, Thomas?”

“Because, I fear the perverting influence of wealth on her mind.  I am afraid her position will give her false views of life.  I wish to marry for a wife—­not for money.  I can make money myself.”

“Still, Thomas, Margaretta is, I think, an innocent-minded, good girl.  I do not see that she has been much warped by her position.”

“So she seems to me, and I am glad that my sister’s observation corroborates my own.  And now, Mary, do you think I have any thing to hope?”

“Certainly, I do.”

“But why do you think so?”