Bentley remained fixed as a rock, and perhaps, secretly gloried in the double character of martyr and missionary, since he now encountered what he technically denominated “_persecution_.” To the Vallies he _would_ go, and perhaps the _real_ motive may never be fully revealed to his own mind, though we lookers on could not help perceiving very clearly, that the devoted and mutual attachment of Falkland and Emily Douglas, had been the _true_ pivot on which his purposes turned. Love, in its common acceptation, never found a place in Bentley’s breast. He never knew what it was to be impelled either by ungovernable passion, which hurries some to ruin and abasement; nor was his heart formed to those all-powerful, but delicate sympathies, which though fine as threads of gossamer, yet irresistibly entangle the affections, and produce entire dependence for happiness on the reciprocal devotion of a beloved object. No, Bentley had seen that men and women usually marry. He had therefore contemplated marriage for himself. He saw children in most families, and without loving them, he supposed that he should one day be a father, as well as husband; but the utmost which his mind had ever accomplished in reducing these wide abstractions and “loose generalities,” to any practical bearing on his individual lot, was summed up in the following hypothesis. “If I should ever think of engaging myself to any woman, and resigning my present freedom, become a married man, I must endeavour to select a suitable companion; money is a sordid motive, though it is a necessary adjunct; beauty is a fading flower, yet the eye is fascinated by its charms; intellect is inspiring, but it often leads to vanity; religion is essential, but how do we know it to be sincere. If I _were_ to think of marrying, I wish that it might be to Emily Douglas; but would she marry me?” These _ifs_ and _ands_, had been so often laid before the imagination of George Bentley, that they became as habitual as breakfast, dinner, and sleep, probably occupying at stated intervals that period of _coma_, which intervenes between a full meal and a sound slumber, till by daily recurrence of Emily’s image, he had marked her insensibly for his own, and that too, without the slightest degree of personal presumption either respecting his powers of pleasing, or her feelings towards him. When, therefore, his eyes were first opened to the truth that Emily loved, and was beloved by another, he woke, as from a dream. He was astounded, puzzled. He felt unsettled, set adrift, or, perhaps like an owl when it is suddenly brought into the sun’s light from the tranquil shade of its ivied tower. At last, however, his mental optics accommodated themselves to a new focus. He was no longer confused, and his eyes were no longer dim. He then began to examine himself, and was obliged to make the inward confession, that no one had injured him. He was not in love. He had never given any one reason to suppose that he