“Thank Heaven! I am not mortified,” cried Miss Hunter, throwing back her head with pettish disdain. Mrs. Beaumont, who had prepared herself for a fainting fit, or at least for a flood of tears, rejoiced to see this turn in the young lady’s temper. “That’s right, my own love. Hew I admire your spirit! This pride becomes you, and is what I expected from your understanding. Set a just value upon yourself, and show it.” “I should set but little value on myself, indeed, if I did not think myself equal to Miss Walsingham; but Mr. Beaumont knows best.” “Not best, I fear,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “but, from a child he was ever the most self-willed, uncontrollable being; there was no moving, no persuading him. There was no power, no appeal, my love, I did not try.” “Dear ma’am, I am excessively sorry you did.” “Why, my dear, I could not refrain from doing all I could, not only for my son’s sake, but for yours, when I saw your affections, as I feared, so deeply engaged. But your present magnanimity gives me hopes that the shock will not be irrecoverable.” “Irrecoverable! No, really, ma’am. If Mr. Beaumont expects to see me wear the willow for him all my life, his vanity will be mistaken.” “Certainly, my dear,” replied Mrs. Beaumont, “you would not be so weak as to wear the willow for any man. A young lady of your fortune should never wear the weeping but the golden willow. Turn your pretty little face again towards me, and smile once more upon me.” Miss Hunter had sat with her face turned from Mrs. Beaumont during the whole of this dialogue--“as if by hiding her face, she could conceal the emotions of her mind from me,” thought her penetrating observer. “Spare me, spare me, dearest Mrs. Beaumont,” cried Miss Hunter, hiding her face on the arm of the sofa, and seeming now disposed to pass from the heights of anger to the depths of despair. Mrs. Beaumont, less hard-hearted than some politicians, who care not who dies or lives, provided they attain their own objects, now listened at least with seeming commiseration to her young friend, who, with intermitting sighs, and in a voice which her position or her sobs rendered scarcely audible, talked of dying, and of never marrying any other man upon the earth.