'Why, indeed, my Lord, I flatter myself that in my time I have had the happiness of not being unpleasing to the sex,' said Delaford, with a sigh and a simper. 'It is a mortifying question, but you owe it to the young woman to answer, whether she gave you any encouragement.' 'No, my Lord. I must confess that she always spoke of a previous attachment, and dashed my earlier hopes to the ground.' 'And the book of poems! How came that to be in your possession? Delaford confessed that it had been a little tribute, returned upon his hands by the young lady in question. 'One question more, Mr. Delaford: what was the fact as to her lending you means for your voyage?' Delaford was not easily brought to confession on this head; but he did at length own that he had gone in great distress to Charlotte, and had appealed to her bounty; but he distinctly acknowledged that it was not in the capacity of suitor; in fact, as he ended by declaring, he had the pleasure of saying that there was no young person whom he esteemed more highly than Miss Arnold, and that she had never given him the least encouragement, such as need distress the happy man who had secured her affections. The happy man did not move till Delaford had left the room, when Louis walked up to him and said, 'I can further tell you, of my own knowledge, that that good girl refused large wages, and a lady's-maid's place, partly because she would not live in the same house with that man; and she has worked on with a faithful affection and constancy, beyond all praise, as the single servant to Mr. and Mrs. Frost in their distress.' 'Don't talk to me, my Lord,' cried Tom, turning away; 'I'm the most unhappy man in the world!' 'I did not ask you to shake hands with Delaford to-night. You will another day. He is only a vain coxcomb, and treated you to a little of his conceit, with, perhaps, a taste of spite at a successful rival; but he has only shown you what a possession you have in her.' 'You don't know what I've done, my Lord. I have written her a letter that she can never forgive!' 'You don't know what I've done, Tom. I posted a letter by the mail just starting from Callao--a letter to Mr. Frost, with a hint to Charlotte that you were labouring under a little delusion; I knew, from your first narration, that Ford could be no other than my old friend, shorn of his beams.' 'That letter--' still muttered Tom. 'She'll forgive, and like you all the better for having afforded her a catastrophe, Tom. You may write by the next mail; unless, what is better still, you come home with us by the same, and speak for yourself. If I am your master then, I'll give you the holiday. Yes, Tom, it was important to me to clear up your countenance, for I want to bespeak your services to-morrow as my friend.'