It is not easy to distinguish how much of the emotions on such occasions proceeds from real preference, and how much from gratified or mortified vanity. I believe it does not often fall to the lot of any one, to feel the real, pure, passion of love to the highest degree of which their nature is capable; but the combination of other, less noble passions, will produce considerable pains, pleasures, blushings, and flushings; hearts will beat, cheeks turn pale, hands shake, knees even will knock a little together, and the symptoms pass muster very well, as love, true love. If the affair ends in marriage, and the parties suit, it does as well as love, and often ends in becoming love itself. If, on the contrary, the flirtation ends, as many flirtations do, these symptoms are mentally laughed at and forgotten, as having only been passing ebullitions of gratified vanity, or indignant pride; the heart is supposed, and really is, free, and ready for a real true passion whenever it may be called forth. Lucy passed a restless and uncomfortable week—annoyed, when they were asked where Lord Montreville was gone—annoyed, when they were obliged to answer they did not know—annoyed, when they were asked when he returned—annoyed, at being again obliged to reply they could not tell—annoyed, when people looked surprised at their answers—annoyed, when they looked wise and cunning, and treated these answers as discreet evasions. At length, on the tenth day from Lord Montreville’s departure his servant was seen riding up the coach-road, towards the back-door. Lucy’s heart beat very quick, and she thought it quite abominable of John not to bring the note up-stairs immediately. She would fain have told her mother that she had seen the servant arrive, and that John was evidently waiting to finish his dinner, and to prepare the luncheon, before he brought the note; but she was ashamed to show her impatience, and she resolutely continued to copy music. John, it is presumed, had a good appetite that day, at least the time appeared unaccountably long. At length, however, luncheon was announced, and the note delivered, with the information that Lord Montreville’s servant was to wait for an answer. “It must be the proposal; and the servant is not to return without the answer,” thought Lucy, and her eyes felt dizzy. She glanced at the exterior of the note—it was three-cornered! It could not be a proposal. No! Never did a proposal come in the shape of a three-cornered note! It was very short, announcing his return, and begging if Mrs. Heckfield had finished the third volume of some novel which he had lent her, that she would return it, as he was sending back a box of books to the library.