for him, who knew, too well, how little he deserved, either by fortune or desert, to hope, to hope to make you his; and yet, how little has prudence or caution to do with situations like this.”  She did not guess the animus of this speech.  “I felt all I have described; and yet, and yet, I lingered on, prizing too dearly the happiness of the present hour, to risque it by any avowal of sentiments, which might have banished me from your presence for ever.  If the alteration of these hopes and fears have proved too strong for my reason at last, I cannot help it; and this it is which now leads me to make this avowal to you.”  Emily turned her head away from me; but her agitated manner showed how deeply my words had affected her; and I too, now that I had finished, felt that I had been “coming it rather strong.”

“I hoped, Mr. Lorrequer,” said she, at length, “I hoped, I confess, to have had an opportunity of speaking with you.”  Then, thought I, the game is over, and Bishop Luscombe is richer by five pounds, than I wish him.  —­“Something, I know not what, in your manner, led me to suspect that your affections might lean towards me; hints you have dropped, and, now and then, your chance allusions strengthened the belief, and I determined, at length, that no feeling of maidenly shame on my part should endanger the happiness of either of us, and I determined to see you; this was so difficult, that I wrote a letter, and that letter, which might have saved me all distressing explanation, I burned before you this morning.”

“But, why, dearest girl,”—­here was a plunge—­“why, if the letter could remove any misconstruction, or could be the means of dispelling any doubt—­why not let me see it?”

“Hear me out,” cried she, eagerly, and evidently not heeding my interruption, “I determined if your affections were indeed”—­a flood of tears here broke forth, and drowned her words; her head sank between her hands, and she sobbed bitterly.

“Corpo di Baccho!” said I to myself, “It is all over with me; the poor girl is evidently jealous, and her heart will break.”

“Dearest, dearest Emily,” said I, passing my arm round her, and approaching my head close to her’s, “if you think that any other love than yours could ever beat within this heart—­that I could see you hourly before me—­live beneath your smile, and gaze upon your beauty—­and, still more than all—­pardon the boldness of the thought—­feel that I was not indifferent to you.”—­

“Oh! spare me this at least,” said she, turning round her tearful eyes upon me, and looking most bewitchingly beautiful.  “Have I then showed you this plainly?”

“Yes, dearest girl!  That instinct which tells us we are loved has spoken within me.  And here in this beating heart”—­

“Oh! say not more,” said she, “if I have, indeed, gained your affections”—­

“If—­if you have,” said I, clasping her to my heart, while she continued to sob still violently, and I felt half disposed to blow my brains out for my success.  However, there is something in love-making as in fox-hunting, which carries you along in spite of yourself; and I continued to pour forth whole rhapsodies of love that the Pastor Fido could not equal.