preference from which her delicacy shrank. She could plainly see a growing attachment in Mr. Barclay to Beatrice, and could not, for a moment, suppose he could be insensible to her friend's fascinations, which certainly were very great. She was the more convinced that Mr. Barclay loved Beatrice, for his manners evidently changed, and, at times, he was absent and thoughtful, and she sometimes fancied unhappy. Once it struck her, his affections might be engaged elsewhere, and that Beatrice had shaken his faith to her to whom it was plighted. She observed Beatrice using all her efforts to attract and win Mr. Barclay, and yet she doubted if she were sincere. Many things in her conduct led to this conclusion, and showed no little coquetry in her disposition. Be it as it may, she met Mr. Barclay's attentions more than half way, and seemed never in such spirits as when with him; at any rate, poor Ethelind's delicacy took the alarm, and she resolved to crush her own growing attachment in the bud, and hide her feelings in reserve, and so great was her self–command, that her love for Mr. Barclay, was unsuspected by all save her mother. 

 As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning one evening from a long walk, and being very tired, they sat down on a bank facing the Towy to rest themselves, and watch the setting sun sink behind the undulating mountains that almost surrounded them. They were, for some minutes, so absorbed in the scene before them, that neither spoke; at last Beatrice exclaimed:— 

 "What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and Mr. Barclay never took it into your heads to fall in love with each other; you would make such a capital clergyman's wife." 

 "Beatrice!" said Ethelind, "why talk thus; do you mean to say that you have been insensible to his attachment to you?" 

 "I do not mean to say that," replied she, "but I can assure you, that if there is such a feeling, it is only on his side." 

 "And yet, you have not only received, but met his attentions with such evident pleasure, and given him such decided encouragement." 

 "Now, Ethy, how could I resist a flirtation with such an interesting character?" 

 "Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the pain you might inflict by leading him to suppose his affection was reciprocated." 

 "Never, my consciencious little Ethelind, he is too poor, nay, too good, for me to think seriously of becoming his wife." 

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