“Oh! my Lord,” cried Miss Woodley, with a most forcible accent, “_You_ are the last person on earth she would pardon me for entrusting.” “Why so?” said he, warmly. “But that is the way—the person who is our friend we distrust—where a common interest is concerned, we are ashamed of drawing on a common danger—afraid of advice, though that advice is to save us.——Miss Woodley,” said he, changing his voice with excess of earnestness, “do you not believe, that I would do anything to make Miss Milner happy?” “Any thing in honour, my Lord.” “She can desire nothing farther,” he replied in agitation. “Are her desires so unwarrantable, that I cannot grant them?” Miss Woodley again did not speak—and he continued—— “Great as my friendship is, there are certainly bounds to it—bounds that shall save her in spite of herself:”—and he raised his voice. “In the disposal of themselves,” resumed he, with a less vehement tone, “that great, that terrific disposal in marriage, (at which I have always looked with fear and dismay) there is no accounting for the rashness of a woman’s choice, or sometimes for the depravity of her taste. But in such a case, Miss Milner’s election of a husband shall not direct mine. If she does not know how to estimate her own value, I do. Independent of her fortune, she has beauty to captivate the heart of any man; and with all her follies, she has a frankness in her manner, an unaffected wisdom in her thoughts, a vivacity in her conversation, and withal, a softness in her demeanour, that might alone engage the affections of a man of the nicest sentiments, and the strongest understanding. I will not see all these qualities and accomplishments debased. It is my office to protect her from the consequences of a degrading choice, and I will.” “My Lord, Miss Milner’s taste is not a depraved one; it is but too refined.” “What can you mean by that, Miss Woodley? You talk mysteriously. Is she not afraid that I will thwart her inclinations?” “She is sure that you will, my Lord.” “Then must the person be unworthy of her.” Miss Woodley rose from her seat—she clasped her hands—every look and every gesture proved her alternate resolution and irresolution of proceeding. Lord Elmwood’s attention was arrested before; but now it was fixed to a degree which her extraordinary manner only could occasion. “My Lord,” said she, with a tremulous voice, “promise me, declare to me, nay, swear to me, that it shall ever remain a secret in your own breast, and I will reveal to you, on whom she has placed her affections.”