as almost to touch it.  She leaned over me—­I felt her breath upon my brow, but never moved.  At this instant, a tress of her hair, becoming unfastened, fell over upon my face.  She started—­the motion threw me off my guard, and I looked up.  She gave a faint, scarce audible shriek, and sank into the chair beside me.  Recovering, however, upon the instant, she grasped the letter she had just laid down, and, having crushed it between her fingers, threw it into the fire.  This done—­as if the effort had been too much for her strength—­she again fell back upon her seat, and looked so pale I almost thought she had fainted.

Before I had time to speak, she rose once more; and now her face was bathed in blushes, her eyes swam with rising tears, and her lips trembled with emotion as she spoke.

“Oh, Mr. Lorrequer, what will you—­what can you think of this?  If you but knew—­;” and here she faltered and again grew pale, while I with difficulty rising from the sofa, took her hand, and led her to the chair beside it.

“And may I not know?” said I; “may I not know, my dear”—­I am not sure I did not say dearest—­“Miss Bingham, when, perhaps, the knowledge might make me the happiest of mortals?”

This was a pretty plunge as a sequel to my late resolutions.  She hid her face between her hands, and sobbed for some seconds.

“At least,” said I, “as that letter was destined for me but a few moments since, I trust that you will let me hear its contents.”

“Oh no—­not now—­not now,” said she entreatingly; and, rising at the same time, she turned to leave the room.  I still held her hand, and pressed it within mine.  I thought she returned the pressure.  I leaned forward to catch her eye, when the door was opened hastily, and a most extraordinary figure presented itself.

It was a short, fat man, with a pair of enormous moustaches, of a fiery red; huge bushy whiskers of the same colour; a blue frock covered with braiding, and decorated with several crosses and ribbons; tight pantaloons and Hessian boots, with long brass spurs.  He held a large gold-headed cane in his hand, and looked about with an expression of very equivocal drollery, mingled with fear.

“May I ask, sir,” said I, as this individual closed the door behind him, “may I ask the reason for this intrusion?”

“Oh, upon my conscience, I’ll do—­I’m sure to pass muster now,” said the well-known voice of Mr. O’Leary, whose pleasant features began to dilate amid the forest of red hair he was disguised in.  “But I see you are engaged,” said he, with a sly look at Miss Bingham, whom he had not yet recognised; “so I must contrive to hide myself elsewhere, I suppose.”

“It is Miss Bingham,” said I, “who has been kind enough to come here with her maid, to bring me some flowers.  Pray present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Bingham, and say how deeply I feel her most kind attention.”

Emily rose at the instant, and recovering her self-possession at once, said—­