He soon acquired a knowledge of commerce, and devoted himself with a degree of zeal and perseverance that could not but command success. Though he had never told his love, it cannot be said that concealment had “preyed on his damask cheek;” the only change effected in that damask was a more healthful color caused by constant exercise. Even during the excitement of his daily duties, and the engrossing study of all that could tend to the fulfillment of his designs, time seemed to wear but slowly away, though, indeed, the hours were often beguiled of their weariness when meditating on the loveliness and grace of Mary. CHAPTER IV. “Methinks I feel this youth’s perfection. Steal with an invisible and subtile stealth, To creep in at mine eyes.” Miss Bryarly was idolized by both her father and uncle, and her education and accomplishments had been their joint care. The indulgence of the latter toward her knew no bounds; the expensive presents he lavished upon her, silently attested how well he loved her. Mr. Pluribusi had never married. He was a man of a firm mind, of a generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand up against oppression as readily on behalf of others as himself; and at the bottom of all he had a tenderness and delicacy of feeling which must not be passed by without at least our humble commendation. One day Mary and her uncle were sitting alone; he held a book in his hand, and was apparently reading, while she had given herself up to one of those thoughtful dreams, half joy, half sadness, in which she had frequently indulged since the departure of Mr. Thatcher. She was aroused by her uncle, who laughingly said, “Well, Mary, can you tell me now what this passion of love is, that you and I read and hear so much about?” “Oh, uncle, how should I know?” replied she, blushing crimson. “I am pretty sure,” said he, still laughing, “you will never again ask, ‘Uncle, what is love?’ You want no explanation now—no, no, not you; you can now teach me what it is.” “Nay, dear uncle, you know I am perfectly unacquainted with the passion.” “Perfectly, my dear; and you are perfectly unacquainted with a certain tall, good-looking young man, who was here a few weeks since, watching your every motion with so enamored a spirit, and so beseechingly imploring a repetition of that sweet, enchanting air, called Puritani, which you are never tired—no, not you—of singing, since he so rapturously praised it. You did not see who was laughing behind you all the time.” “How can you be so ridiculous?” said Mary, half pouting, half laughing. “And how can you treat such a discreet and trust-worthy personage as your own uncle in this way, and make your heart, like the prison-house of the ghost of Hamlet, the abode of untold secrets?” “I don’t understand you, further than you think yourself very clever—the very Newton of philosophers in the discovery of nothing.”