I have some discretion, too, hereditary or acquired. I am aware that the moment two lovers cease to be miserable, they begin to be tiresome; their best friends and the generous public are satisfied to hear as little as possible concerning their prosperous loves. It was otherwise, they say, in the days of Theagenes and Chariclea. “How! will you never be satisfied with hearing?” says their historian, who, when he came to a prosperous epoch in their history, seems to have had a discreet suspicion that he might be too long; “Is not my discourse yet tedious?” “No,” the indefatigable auditor is made to reply; “and who is he, unless he have a heart of adamant or iron, that would not listen content to hear the loves of Theagenes and Chariclea, though the story should last a year? Therefore, continue it, I beseech you.” “Continue, I beseech you:” dear flattering words! Though perhaps no one, at this minute, says or feels this, I must add a few lines more--not about myself, but about Mr. Montenero. In the moment of joy, when the heart opens, you can see to the very bottom of it; and whether selfish or generous, revengeful or forgiving, the real disposition is revealed. We were all full of joy and congratulations, when Mr. Montenero, at the first pause of silence, addressed himself in his most persuasive tone to me. “Mr. Harrington--good Mr. Harrington--I have a favour to ask from you.” “A favour! from me! Oh! name it,” cried I: “What pleasure I shall have in granting it!” “Perhaps not. You will not have pleasure--immediate pleasure--in granting it: it will cost you present pain.” “Pain!--impossible! but no matter how much pain if you desire it. What can it be?” “That wretched woman--Fowler!” I shuddered and started back. “Yes, Fowler--your imagination revolts at the sound of her name--she is abhorrent to your strongest, your earliest, associations; but, Mr. Harrington, you have given proofs that your matured reason and your humanity have been able to control and master your imagination and your antipathies. To this power over yourself you owe many of your virtues, and all the strength of character, and, I will say it, the sanity of mind, my son, without which Berenice--” “I will see--I will hear Fowler this instant,” cried I. “So far I will conquer myself; but you will allow that this is a just antipathy. Surely I have reason to hate her.”