'I don't know. I have not thought about it,' she returned, abstractedly; 'the question is, Captain Ellison, has she a beautiful mind?' 'My dear Miss Trelawny, you positively startle me; you are so unlike other people. I only know she has caught Medwin and his ten thousand a year.' 'Poor thing,' was the answer, leaning over and stroking her horse's neck thoughtfully. 'Touched--quite touched,' observed the young man, significantly tapping his forehead, as Ethel rode by--'must be a little queer, you know, or she would not say such things--sort of craze or hallucination--do you know if it be in the family?' 'Nonsense, it is only an ill-arranged mind airing its ideas; she is delightfully young and fresh,' returned his companion, a clever barrister, who had the wit to read a girl's vagarisms aright as the volcanic eruptions of an undisciplined and unsatisfied nature. But it would not do; people passed over Ethel for other girls who were comparatively plain and ordinary, but whose thinking powers were more under control. One declaration had indeed been made, but it was received by such sad wonder on Ethel's part, that the young man looked at her in reproachful confusion. 'Surely you cannot have mistaken my attentions, Miss Trelawny? As a man of honour, I thought it right to come to a clear understanding; if I have ventured to hope too much, I trust you will tell me so.' 'Do you mean you wish to marry me?' asked Ethel, in a tone of regret and dismay. Arthur Sullivan had been a special favourite with her; he had listened to her rhapsodies good-humouredly, and had forborne to laugh at them; he was good-looking too, and possessed of moderate intelligence, and they had got on very well together during a whole season. It was with a sensation of real pain that she heard him avow his intentions. 'There is some mistake. I have never led you to believe that I would ever be your wife,' she continued, turning pale, and her eyes filling with tears. 'No, Miss Trelawny--never,' he answered, hurriedly; 'you are no flirt. If any one be to blame, it is I, for daring to hope I could win you.' 'Indeed it is I who do not deserve you,' she returned, sadly; 'but it is not your fault that you cannot give me what I want. Perhaps I expect too much; perhaps I hardly know what it is I really do want.' 'May I wait till you find out?' he asked, earnestly; 'real love is not to be despised, even though it be accompanied with little wisdom.' The white lids dropped heavily over the eyes, and for a moment she made no answer; only as he rose from her side, and walked up and down in his agitation, she rose too, hurriedly. 'It cannot be--I feel it--I know it--you are too good to me, Mr. Sullivan; and I want something more than goodness--but--but--does my father know?' 'Can you doubt it?'