Nor was this selfish consideration my only motive in the conduct I was resolved to adopt; on the contrary, it was scarcely more prominent in my mind, than those derived from giving to a friend who was now dearer to me than ever, his only consolation on this earth, and to Ellen, the safest protection, in case of any danger to her brother. With these, it is true, were mingled feelings which, in happier circumstances, might have been those of transport at a bright and successful termination to a deep and devoted love; but these I had, while Glanville’s very life was so doubtful, little right to indulge, and I checked them as soon as they arose. After a sleepless night, I repaired to Lady Glanville’s house. It was long since I had been there, and the servant who admitted me, seemed somewhat surprised at the earliness of my visit. I desired to see the mother, and waited in the parlour till she came. I made but a scanty exordium to my speech. In very few words I expressed my love to Ellen, and besought her mediation in my behalf; nor did I think it would be a slight consideration in my favour, with the fond mother, to mention Glanville’s concurrence with my suit. “Ellen is up stairs in the drawing-room,” said Lady Glanville. “I will go and prepare her to receive you--if you have her consent, you have mine.” “Will you suffer me, then,” said I, “to forestal you? Forgive my impatience, and let me see her before you do.” Lady Glanville was a woman of the good old school, and stood somewhat upon forms and ceremonies. I did not, therefore, await the answer, which I foresaw might not be favourable to my success, but with my customary assurance, left the room, and hastened up stairs. I entered the drawing-room, and shut the door. Ellen was at the far end; and as I entered with a light step, she did not perceive me till I was close by. She started when she saw me; and her cheek, before very pale, deepened into crimson. “Good Heavens! is it you,” she said, falteringly “I--I thought--but--but--excuse me for an instant, I will call my mother.” “Stay for one instant, I beseech you--it is from your mother that I come--she has referred me to you.” And with a trembling and hurried voice, for all my usual boldness forsook me, I poured forth, in rapid and burning words, the history of my secret and hoarded love--its doubts, fears, and hopes. Ellen sunk back on her chair, overpowered and silent by her feelings, and the vehemence of my own. I knelt, and took her hand; I covered it with my kisses--it was not withdrawn from them. I raised my eyes, and beheld in her’s all that my heart had hoped, but did not dare to pourtray. “You--you,” said she--when at last she found words--“I imagined that you only thought of ambition and the world--I could not have dreamt of this.” She ceased, blushing and embarrassed.