“Good God! you don’t say so! Is it incurable—is there no hope?” exclaimed Gadsby, starting from his seat. “Heart complaints are very dangerous in all cases, I believe,” replied Walton, turning his head to conceal a smile, “yet I hope Miss Laurence is not incurable; indeed, I feel quite confident that if she would but call in a physician I could recommend, she might soon be restored.” “And wont she? Have you spoken to her friends? Where is he to be found—for not a moment should be lost; it is your duty to insist upon it!” cried Gadsby, catching the arm of his friend, who seemed provokingly indifferent. “If she will only consent to see him, I shall gladly name him to you—but why are you so much interested? To be sure, common kindness dictates sympathy for the illness of one so young and beautiful; but why you should take her sickness so much at heart, quite astonishes me,” said Walton. “Then, Walton, let me tell you that it is because I love her; yes, love her more than my life!” replied Gadsby. “I know she despises me, for I have appeared to her in a false light, for which I may thank my own folly, and in giving my heart to her, I have sealed my own wretchedness.” Walton respected the feelings of his friend at this candid avowal, and checking the well-merited jest which rose to his lips, said, “In so hasty a decision, and one so fatal to your happiness, I think you do both Miss Laurence and yourself injustice; if you really love her, pursue the game boldly—I think you need not despair.” Grateful for his forbearance on a point to which he was aware he was a fair subject for ridicule, and somewhat encouraged by the words and manner of Walton, Gadsby frankly continued, “If her life is spared, I will show her that I am not what she has thought me. Yes, I will study to win her love. O, my friend, should I succeed—should I gain that rich treasure of beauty and intelligence, my whole life shall be devoted to her happiness!” What think you now, dear reader, of our invincible coquet? Let us now change the scene to the sick room of Lucia. “Look, my darling! see what beautiful flowers have been sent you this morning!” said Mrs. Laurence, as Charlotte Atwood entered the room, bearing in her hands two large and splendid bouquets. “How beautiful!” cried Lucia, a faint color tinging her pale cheek. “Yes, they are beautiful,” said her friend Charlotte; “really, Lucia, to be so tenderly remembered in sickness, compensates for a great deal of suffering. But you are favored; now I dare say poor I might look in vain for any such fragrant tokens of kindness.” “You carry them always with you, dear Charlotte; your heart is a perfect garden of all fair and beautiful flowers,” said Mrs. Laurence, smiling gratefully at the affectionate girl, who had shared with her so faithfully the cares and anxieties of her child’s sick bed. “Do you know who sent them?” asked Lucia, as she bent her head to inhale their sweetness.