“Frankness!” cried Miss Milner, starting. “Frankness, my dear Miss Woodley! What you have just now heard me say, is all a falsehood.” “How, Miss Milner!” “Oh, Miss Woodley,” returned she, sobbing upon her bosom, “pity the agonies of my heart, my heart, by nature sincere, when such are the fatal propensities it cherishes, that I must submit to the grossest falsehoods rather than reveal the truth.” “What can you mean?” cried Miss Woodley, with the strongest amazement in her face. “Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you suppose I _can_ love him? Oh fly, and prevent my guardian from telling him such an untruth.” “What can you mean?” repeated Miss Woodley; “I protest you terrify me.” For this inconsistency in the behaviour of Miss Milner, appeared as if her senses had been deranged. “Fly,” she resumed, “and prevent the inevitable ill consequence which will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be told this falsehood. It will involve us all in greater disquiet than we suffer at present.” “Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner?” “That which impels all my actions—an unsurmountable instinct—a fatality, that will for ever render me the most miserable of human beings; and yet you, even you, my dear Miss Woodley, will not pity me.” Miss Woodley pressed her closely in her arms, and vowed, “That while she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she still would pity her.” “Go to Mr. Dorriforth then, and prevent him from imposing upon Lord Frederick.” “But that imposition is the only means of preventing the duel,” replied Miss Woodley. “The moment I have told him that your affection was but counterfeited, he will no longer refuse accepting the challenge.” “Then at all events I am undone,” exclaimed Miss Milner, “for the duel is horrible, even beyond every thing else.” “How so?” returned Miss Woodley, “since you have declared you do not care for Lord Frederick?” “But are you so blind,” returned Miss Milner with a degree of madness in her looks, “as to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh! Miss Woodley! I love him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all the tenderness of a wife.” Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down—it was on a chair that was close to her—her feet could not have taken her to any other. She trembled—she was white as ashes, and deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by the hand, said, “I know what you feel—I know what you think of me—and how much you hate and despise me. But Heaven is witness to all my struggles—nor would I, even to myself, acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by a sense of his danger”—— “Silence,” cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror.