“Then pray, modest youth, let me do it for you. I long to take this _dénouement_ in my own hands. I have always had a talent for comedy, and this is probably the only opportunity I shall ever have of making my appearance on any stage.” “Now, Catharine! none of your plots. I have a shuddering recollection of your talents for comedy, last winter, and I beg that you will not lay your wicked little hand upon the web of my destiny.” Catharine held up a hand as white as snow. “Does this look like a thing having power to harm your great clumsy destiny? I scorn to meddle with any thing so weighty. I am intent upon pleasure only—a scene—a surprise—dramatic effect—tears—joy, &c., and when that is over, the curtain may fall on you and your ladye love, while I shall go home, like a good Griselda, and mend Charles’ clothes.” Who could help laughing when Catharine chose it? Not Mr. Stanley, so he yielded the point; and she had soon arranged her scene, and taken to herself the lion’s share of prominence therein. “And now,” said she, “go and tell Ada, for the thousandth time, that she is ‘dearer to you than the ruddy drops that visit your sad,’—Oh, no! not sad, I must alter Shakspeare a little—‘your _joyful_ heart;’ send Charles to me, and—Oh! there comes Mrs. Somers, and I must speak with her directly,” and away darted Catharine through the shrubbery to meet Mrs. Somers, who had just returned from a walk. As she bounded lightly down the walk, Stanley could not help confessing that she was graceful as a nymph, but there was one still more graceful in his eyes, whom he had not yet seen; and with a quick step he entered the house. His first act was, faithfully to deliver Catharine’s message, and send Ingleby away. He then took a seat by Ada, and paraphrased the words “I love,” with commendable ingenuity, for nearly half an hour. He then suddenly remembered that he had another mission to perform, and after a pause, during which he wondered how he should begin: “Ada,” said he, “you have not yet asked me any questions relative to my family. Have you no curiosity to know who I am?” “On all subjects connected with you,” replied Ada, “I feel an interest too strong to be called curiosity; but in matters relating to your family, your communications, to give me pleasure, must be voluntary. I expect to be told _without_ the asking,” added she, smiling, “who you are.” “So you shall, my Ada, and you are about to receive the astounding information.” “Must it be astounding?” laughed Ada, “for if so, I am bound to conclude that I have been over hasty in my acceptance of your attentions. I hope you are not Jupiter Tonnans, for I have no ambition to be dazzled to death. But perhaps you are only an earthly prince in disguise, or, perchance, The Wandering Jew. If the last of these, I must be permitted to decline the honor of becoming ‘The Wandering Jewess.’”