"Nothing against her! Don't you know any thing in her favour?" "Well, perhaps I do. She is said to be worth some fifty thousand dollars." "Nonsense, Mary! What do I care about her fifty thousand dollars? Don't you know any thing else in her favour?" "Why, yes, brother. As long as you seem so serious about the matter, I think Margaretta a fine girl. She is amiable in disposition--is well educated--tolerably good-looking, and, I think, ordinarily intelligent." "Ordinarily intelligent!" "Yes. Certainly there is nothing extraordinary about her." "No, of course not." "Well, brother, what next?" "Why, simply, Mary, I like Margaretta very much. The oftener I see her, the more am I drawn towards her. To tell the plain, homely truth, I love her." "And don't care any thing about her fifty thousand dollars?" "No Mary, I don't think I do. Indeed, if I know my own feelings, I would rather she were not worth a dollar." "And why so, Thomas?" "Because, I fear the perverting influence of wealth on her mind. I am afraid her position will give her false views of life. I wish to marry for a _wife_--not for _money_. I can make money myself." "Still, Thomas, Margaretta is, I think, an innocent-minded, good girl. I do not see that she has been much warped by her position." "So she seems to me, and I am glad that my sister's observation corroborates my own. And now, Mary, do you think I have any thing to hope?" "Certainly, I do." "But why do you think so?" "Because Margaretta must have good sense enough to see that you are a man of correct principles, and an affectionate disposition." "Still, she may not see in me that which interests her sufficiently to induce her to marry me." "That is true. But I don't believe you have any thing to fear." "I cannot help fearing, Mary, for the simple reason, that I find my affections so much interested. A disappointment would be attended with extreme pain." "Then I would end suspense at once." "I will. To-morrow evening I will declare my feelings." It was about nine o'clock on the next evening, while Mary Fielding sat reading by the centre-table, that her brother entered hastily, and threw himself upon the sofa, a deep sigh escaping him as he did so. "What ails you, Thomas?" inquired his sister, rising and approaching him. But he made no reply. "Tell me, what ails you, Thomas?" Mary urged, taking his hand affectionately. "I have been to see Margaretta," the brother at length replied, in as calm a voice as he could assume. "And she has not, surely, declined your offer?" "She has, and with what appeared to me an intimation that I loved her money, perhaps, better than herself." "Surely not, brother!" "To me it seemed so. Certainly she treated lightly my declaration, and almost jested with me." The sister stood silent for some moments, and then said-- "The woman who could thus jest with you, Thomas, is unworthy of you." "So I am trying to convince myself. But the trial is a deeply painful one."