“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing,” said Mrs. Morris, calmly; and continued: “At first sight it does seem a very cruel thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode he 'll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet melancholy in that village story; men will never know whence they found their way into the curate's heart. How little aware are they that there's a corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier thoughts,--a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!” May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a sob. “So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, “you can forgive yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you are to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord of one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that, my sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for, against every check you send your banker, the cashier's book will retain the record.” “You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. “I came for counsel.” “And I have given you more,--I have given you consolation. I wish any one would be as generous with _me!_” “Oh, you are not angry with me!” cried the girl, earnestly. “Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger, but it is of _you_, not of _me_, I would speak; tell me everything. Has Charles spoken to you?” “Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself.” “Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully. “Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to _me_,” said she, flushing deeply. “And Mr. Layton,--is _he_ possessed of the same calm philosophy? Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?” said Mrs. Morris, who, apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a passing glance at the other's face. “How can you ask such a question? What is _he_ to _me_, or _I_ to _him?_ If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered that the difference of station between us presents an insurmountable objection.” “As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly. “Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just the way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,” said she, passing her arm affectionately round her waist; “confess honestly that he told you as much.”