“That of rendering yourself acceptable to a girl you have known for so many years?” said Middlemas with a half-suppressed sneer. “No great difficulty in that, I should think, for such a person as Mr. Hartley, with Doctor Gray's favour to back him. No, no-there could be no great obstacle there.” “Both you and I know the contrary, Mr. Middlemas,” said Hartley, very seriously. “I know?--How should I know any thing more than yourself about the state of Miss Gray's inclinations?” said Middlemas. “I am sure we have had equal access to know them.” “Perhaps so; but some know better how to avail themselves of opportunities. Mr. Middlemas, I have long suspected that you have had the inestimable advantages of possessing Miss Gray's affections, and”---- “I?” interrupted Middlemas; “you are jesting, or you are jealous. You do yourself less, and me more, than justice; but the compliment is so great, that I am obliged to you for the mistake.” “That you may know,” answered Hartley, “I do not speak either by guess, or from what you call jealousy, I tell you frankly, that Menie Gray herself told me the state of her affections. I naturally communicated to her the discourse I had with her father. I told her I was but too well convinced that at the present moment I did not possess that interest in her heart, which alone might entitle me to request her acquiescence in the views which her father's goodness held out to me; but I entreated her not at once to decide against me, but give me an opportunity to make way in her affections, if possible, trusting that time, and the services which I should render to her father, might have an ultimate effect in my favour.” “A most natural and modest request. But what did the young lady say in reply?” “She is a noble-hearted girl, Richard Middlemas; and for her frankness alone, even without her beauty and her good sense, deserves an emperor. I cannot express the graceful modesty with which she told me, that she knew too well the kindliness, as she was pleased to call it, of my heart, to expose me to the protracted pain of an unrequited passion. She candidly informed me that she had been long engaged to you in secret--that you had exchanged portraits;--and though without her father's consent she would never become yours, yet she felt it impossible that she should ever so far change her sentiments as to afford the most distant prospect of success to another.” “Upon my word,” said Middlemas, “she has been extremely candid indeed, and I am very much obliged to her!” “And upon _my_ honest word, Mr. Middlemas,” returned Hartley, “you do Miss Gray the greatest injustice--nay, you are ungrateful to her, if you are displeased at her making this declaration. She loves you as a woman loves the first object of her affection--she loves you better”--He stopped, and Middlemas completed the sentence.