Phœbe blushed at the mention of her own love, and pitied Amy, knowing how she too had loved in those past days; but she could give Amy no soothing tidings of Lionel; she could not deny that his conduct had been unmanly, and somewhat dishonourable. Yet Arthur Phillips had not told her of those last words of Lionel’s, nor had he shown her a letter since received from him, in which Mr. Hammerton said “that stupid bit of flirtation in Avonworth Valley” he hoped was forgotten by the bailiff’s pretty daughter, “who had played her part so well and very nearly with success.” Phœbe could not help feeling that some misunderstanding, some mistake or other, had come between the loves of these two, and she would fain have pointed this out to Amy. “Who knows but some dreadful misunderstanding may have----” “Don’t speak of it, Phœbe, love,--I have thought of that and everything, and have resolved. Beside, my love, it is not fitting we should discuss the question. I am betrothed; in a few short weeks I shall be a wife.” “It is because you have those few weeks in which you might still change your determination that I venture to ask you, supposing Lionel Hammerton were to return and renew his former attentions, and offer you marriage,” said Phœbe. “I should not believe in his sincerity,--I would rather be beyond his reach. I could fain hope that he might feel a passion for me, that he might all of a sudden love me; that he might feel some of the pangs I have felt. No, Phœbe, if he were at my feet this moment I might smile and let him sue; but I should not love him,--I should not prefer him to his elder brother with the title;--oh, no! all that romantic sentiment is over!--I should prefer to be a countess in possession rather than in reversion. And now we have said enough about this. I wanted to talk to you and ask you all sorts of questions, and you have literally turned the tables upon me by putting me through a most romantic catechism. I have answered you to the best of my ability and with perfect sincerity; so now, pray, be content, and let us talk of laces, and ribbons, and orange blossoms, and _glacé_, and _poult de soie_; of bridesmaids, and Hanover Square, and matrimonial responsibilities.” And Amy rattled away and laughed at Phœbe’s sober face, and kissed her fair forehead, as joyously as if she were about to marry her first love; but when she was alone in her bedroom, she flung herself down and sobbed aloud. Why had heaven given her all those warm passions, that deep capacity to love, and set the idol before her, and let all her love go for naught? This was the burden of the burning thoughts which Phœbe’s conversation had aroused. “Alas! the love of woman! it is known To be a lovely and a dangerous thing.”