“You will bring Mary here to meet me, on new year’s day morning, my dear madam?” he says softly, and in the most insinuating tone, “will you not?” “New year’s morning,” interrupted Mrs. James, “that will never do. You know I have always a party on the new year’s night, I shall not be able to give you that morning.” “Well,” answered Forsyth, as smoothly and persuasively as he could, “but if you could give us your presence for a few minutes, Mary and I, I hope, will be able to manage the rest ourselves, and you know, my dear Mrs. Melville,” he added still more blandly, “I am anxious to come to an understanding with Mary as soon as possible. Come, you must add this to the many kindnesses you have done me already. You will consent, I see.” Mrs. James could not resist. “Well then, on new year’s morning be here, and Mary shall meet you,” she said, and her gratified friend bows over her extended hand. “You may come, Mr. Forsyth, on new year’s morning.” Mr. Forsyth can never sufficiently express his obligation; and having succeeded in all things according to his wish with Mrs. James Melville, he takes his leave at last, and rejoices as he hurries through the streets, so cold and bitter to other passengers, but so bright and cheerful to him in his present mood, that soon now he will be assured of Mary. He has no doubt about it, none at all, and he is certain that all that he wants is just this opportunity which Mrs. James is to secure him, and then Mary Melville will be his own, plighted and pledged his own. It is but a few days, yet new year’s morning is as tardy in approach as if, so big with fate to that young, ingenious, and unfearful spirit, it lingered on its way willing to prolong her state of happy unconsciousness. The elegant Mr. Forsyth yawns through the long weary days; though it is the time of his own appointing he is impatient and restless, and his yawning and irksomeness is redoubled on that dull, cold, cheerless evening before its dawn, and he gets really nervous as the time draws near. Strange that one so practised in the world, whose heart has been so long a very superfluous piece of matter, should have his dead affections so powerfully awakened by the simple grace and girlish beauty of guileless Mary Melville. Strange, indeed, and if he is successful in winning her--as who can doubt he will--what hope is there for our sweet Mary when his sudden vehement liking passes into indifference. Poor Mary’s constant heart should be mated only with one as warm and as full of affection and tenderness as itself; but who shall have the choosing of their own future--alas, who! or who, if the choice was given them, would determine aright?--not Mary. But there is a power, the bridegroom in anticipation wots not of, ordering the very words which shall fall from his lips to-morrow, overruling the craftiness of his crafty and subtle spirit, and guarding the innocent simplicity of the prayer-protected girl, defending her from all ill.