destruction of all the expectations you entertained of succeeding to his business and property. Is this true?” “It is quite true!” replied Hal, firmly. “You have, then, to depend alone upon your own exertions for the future?” continued Wilton. “Entirely so,” responded Hal. “How far, then, does the disinterested character of your love for my daughter extend?” inquired Wilton, fixing a steadfast look upon him. “Thus far, sir: that as she, in all her sweet and pure integrity, is the only prize I covet, I shall be infinitely prouder and happier in taking her to my heart as my own beloved wife, dowerless, than did she have the settlement of a princess.” How gratefully and fondly Flora’s eyes beamed on Hal’s animated face, as he, with enthusiastic emphasis, uttered those words. “That I can well believe,” said Wilton, dryly. “The romance of youth is capable of all that; but, Mr. Vivian, can you transplant her to such a home as this or Harleydale? Can you provide her with a town house and a carriage, with a country mansion, with its well-ordered garden, spacious parks, surrounded by upland and dell, by sloping vales, meandering streams, by all the charming accessories and beauties of English landscape? Are you, I say, prepared to do this?” Flora stole to her father’s side, and, placing her hand upon his shoulder gently, said, with a face of rosy hue-- “Papa, dearest, to me all those beauties would be as nothing if not shared by one--I--by--by those I--to whom I am attached!” Her face, brilliant with blushes, sank upon his shoulder. Mr. Wilton waved his hand. “My proposition was to Mr. Vivian, and not to you!” he exclaimed. “Answer me, Mr. Vivian.” “I cannot, sir, now do this,” replied Hal, firmly. “Then how, sir, can you call your love for my daughter other than selfish?” cried Wilton, with apparent triumph. “Out of your exaggerated liking for her, you would remove her from a sphere in which she enjoys all the luxuries of comparative wealth into one in which they are all denied to her. You would transplant her from competence and ease, to surround her with wants, privations, and care. This is disinterested love, indeed, to sacrifice the everyday peace and comfort of the woman for whom you profess attachment in order that you may call her your own. Go to, sir, true love seeks to secure the entire happiness of the object of affection, it sacrifices its own wishes and aspirations, rather than a cloud should hang upon the loved one’s brow, a tear dim her eye, or the smile fade from her cheek. It elevates, sir--never seeks to reduce her chances of happiness; and rather frets itself out in silence and secrecy, than it would, by the gratification of its inclinations, jeopardise her future peace and contentment.”