He was shown into an apartment, and Miss Woodley entered to him. She started when she beheld who it was; but as he did not see a frown upon her face, he caught hold of her hand, and said persuasively, “Do not be offended with me. If I mean to offend you, may I forfeit my life in atonement.” Poor Miss Woodley, glad in her solitude to see any one from Elmwood House, forgot his visit was an offence, till he put her in mind of it; she then said, with some reserve, “Tell me the purport of your coming, Sir, and perhaps I may have no reason to complain?” “It was to see Lady Matilda,” he replied, “or to hear of her health. It was to offer her my services—it was, Miss Woodley, to convince her, if possible, of my esteem.” “Had you no other method, Sir?” said Miss Woodley, with the same reserve. “None;” replied he, “or with joy I should have embraced it; and if you can inform me of any other, tell me I beseech you instantly, and I will immediately be gone, and pursue your directions.” Miss Woodley hesitated. “You know of no other means, Miss Woodley,” he cried. “And yet I cannot commend this,” said she. “Nor do I. Do not imagine because you see me here, that I approve my conduct; but reduced to this necessity, pity the motives that have urged it.” Miss Woodley did pity them; but as she would not own that she did, she could think of nothing else to say. At this instant a bell rung from the chamber above. “That is Lady Matilda’s bell,” said Miss Woodley; “she is coming to take a short walk. Do you wish to see her?” Though it was the first wish of his heart, he paused, and said, “Will you plead my excuse?” As the flight of stairs was but short, which Matilda had to come down, she was in the room with Miss Woodley and Mr. Rushbrook, just as that sentence ended. She had stepped beyond the door of the apartment, when perceiving a visitor, she hastily withdrew. Rushbrook, animated, though trembling at her presence, cried, “Lady Matilda, do not avoid me, till you know that I deserve such a punishment.” She immediately saw who it was, and returned back with a proper pride, and yet a proper politeness in her manner. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” said she, “I did not know you; I was afraid I intruded upon Miss Woodley and a stranger.” “You do not then consider me as a stranger, Lady Matilda? and that you do not, requires my warmest acknowledgements.” She sat down, as if overcome by ill spirits and ill health. Miss Woodley now asked Rushbrook to sit—for till now she had not. “No, Madam,” replied he, with confusion, “not unless Lady Matilda gives me permission.” She smiled, and pointed to a chair—and all the kindness which Rushbrook during his whole life had received from Lord Elmwood, never inspired half the gratitude, which this one instance of civility from his daughter excited. He sat down, with the confession of the obligation upon every feature of his face.