at first, assumes perfectly portentous dimensions and importance before we have done with it; so that the alternate effect is nearly as startling when realized as that produced by Alice's conjuration: She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand, The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand. So while Cecil was drawing on Mark Waring to talk about his daily life--sympathizing with him about his hard, distasteful work, and pitying his loneliness, she never guessed how her words were being branded, one by one, on the earnest, steadfast heart, that her own lofty nature was not worthy to understand. In a week after their first meeting she had drawn from him all the love he had to give; and men of Mark Waring's mould can only find room for one love in a lifetime. Such characters are exceptional, fortunately; for they are very impracticable and difficult to get on with, and their antiquated notions are perpetually contrasting and conflicting with the established prejudices of polite and well-organized society--sometimes even checking the same for an instant in its easy, conventional flow. They _won't_ see that of all ways of spending time and thought, the most absurdly unprofitable is to waste them on a memory. Yet--O mine excellent friend and cynical preceptor! to whom, for sage instruction, I owe a debt of gratitude that I never mean to repay--I beseech you, consort not too much with these misguided men. They are not likely to infect you with their pestilent doctrines and principles; but they may, in an unguarded moment, make you do violence to your favorite maxim--_Nil admirari_. With all his strong common sense, Mark was lamentably deficient in worldly wisdom. He never saw the obstacles that would have daunted others. Could any thing be more improbable than that the most triumphant beauty of the season should seriously incline to share the long up-hill struggle of a rising barrister? Those dull Temple-chambers are lucky enough if the sun condescends to visit them at rare intervals in his journey westward. But Waring's own singleness of purpose beguiled him more effectually than the most inordinate vanity could have done. Putting character out of the question, he thought a woman could only derogate by allying herself to one of inferior birth; and he knew his own blood to be nearly equal to Miss Tresilyan's. He was right so far--if she had only loved him she would have subscribed readily to every article of his simple, knightly creed. The last idea that entered his mind was, that she could have stooped so low as to trifle with him. It was the old mistake. We measure other people's feelings by the intensity of our own, and think it hard when we meet with disappointment. Yet a certain misgiving, that he did not like to analyze, kept him from bringing the question to an issue till the day before his departure. Then he told her frankly what his prospects were, and asked her to share them.