“Oh! I have no _patience_ with you! ‘Loss,’ what could it have been but _death_! Think of Mr. May’s warm regard—but I will _not_ argue with you upon this most injurious suspicion—it is an insult to Mr. Withers to hear or reply to such—pshaw! No, Miss Churchill, you have seized this, as the drowning catch at straws, to save you from fulfilling an engagement, which only since the arrival of this gay young officer has grown distasteful to you. But I tell you plainly, Sophie—Miss Churchill, I should say—that if you break this engagement, as you will not, I think, venture to do—I shall be obliged, however unwillingly, to abandon you. I have a daughter,” here the proud lady drew herself up,” and I must consult _her_ interest before anything else. Rose Green loves you, Sophie Churchill, but if you wantonly trifle with your good name, I must sever you. Mrs. May, also, I think, could scarcely defy public opinion, by continuing her friendly intercourse with you.” Sophie Churchill was sitting with her face pale, her features rigid, her eyes fixed unconsciously upon her cold white fingers idly locked together on her lap; one or two large tears gathered in her set eyes, and slowly rolled down her cheeks. “Do not weep, Miss Churchill, if I talk to you plainly; it is to set things in a proper light before you; I speak to you as I would speak to Rose, under like circumstances. Your duty is very plain; the day of your marriage is fixed, go forward with the preparations for your wedding. I am here to lend you assistance, not to tolerate weakness, vacillation, and infidelity.” Sophie remonstrated now no more; unresistingly she suffered the circle of destiny to close around her. More than the force of circumstances—more than the _strength_ of others—more than our own _weakness_ does our _indolence_ leave us at the mercy of fate. Adverse external powers are at work upon us, surrounding us, contracting their circle upon us; we feel an inward reposing strength that, aroused, might struggle and overcome; but we are inert, we yield to their influence, they close upon us; we sigh, and call it _fate_. It was thus with Sophie Churchill. In vain the whisper of her true interests arose from the deeps of her soul, saying—“Speak! and break through this enchanted circle—_you_ are right, _she_ is wrong. Have faith in God, believe _yourself_, trust in the candor and friendship of Emily, in the intelligence, goodness, and _love_—yes, _love_ of Augustus; awake! arise! and save yourself.” Alas! the voice was heard in vain. It could not be _stilled_, but it was not obeyed. Still sat she there with cold clasped hands and rigid features, letting fate encompass her, but feeling in her profoundest soul the painful consciousness that _she herself_, and not another, was making her own misery.