“Do you know that he loves her?” “No,” answered Miss Milner. “How! do you suppose he does not?” “I suppose that he does, yet I don’t know it.” “Then if you suppose that he does, how can you have the imprudence to find fault with her before him?” “I did not. To call her gloomy, was, I knew, to commend her both to him and to you, who admire such tempers.” “Whatever her temper is, _every one_ admires it; and so far from its being what you have described, she has great vivacity; vivacity which comes from the heart.” “No, if it _came_ from thence, I should admire it too; but, if she has any, it rests there, and no one is the better for it.” “Pshaw!” said Miss Woodley, “it is time for us to retire; you and Mr. Sandford must finish your dispute in the morning.” “Dispute, Madam!” said Sandford, “I never disputed with any one beneath a doctor of divinity in my life. I was only cautioning your friend not to make light of those virtues which it would do her honour to possess. Miss Fenton is a most amiable young woman, and worthy of just such a husband as my Lord Elmwood will make her.” “I am sure,” said Miss Woodley, “Miss Milner thinks so—she has a high opinion of Miss Fenton—she was at present only jesting.” “But, Madam, a jest is a very pernicious thing, when delivered with a malignant sneer. I have known a jest destroy a lady’s reputation—I have known a jest give one person a distaste for another—I have known a jest break off a marriage.” “But I suppose there is no apprehension of that in the present case?” said Miss Woodley—wishing he might answer in the affirmative. “Not that I can foresee. No, Heaven forbid,” he replied, “for I look upon them to be formed for each other—their dispositions, their pursuits, their inclinations the same. Their passions for each other just the same—pure—white as snow.” “And I dare say, not warmer,” replied Miss Milner. He looked provoked beyond measure. “My dear,” cried Miss Woodley, “how can you talk thus? I believe in my heart you are only envious, because my Lord Elmwood has not offered himself to you.” “To her!” said Sandford, affecting an air of the utmost surprise; “to her! Do you think he received a dispensation from his vows, to become the husband of a coquette—a——.”—He was going on. “Nay, Mr. Sandford,” cried Miss Milner, “I believe, after all, my worst crime, in your eyes, is that of being a heretic.” “By no means—it is the only circumstance that can apologize for your faults; and if you had not that excuse, there would be none for you.” “Then, at present, there _is_ an excuse—I thank you, Mr. Sandford—this is the kindest thing you ever said to me. But I am vext to see that you are sorry you have said it.” “Angry at your being a heretic!” he resumed—“Indeed I should be much more concerned to see you a disgrace to our religion.”