catching up his words—

Margaret began again.

"So they have—you say very true—you mean, no doubt, they have more tenderness and less thought than you—but that increases our evils. We love and dare not shew it—and we smile whilst a dagger is placed in our hearts—and die happy, if, in dying, we can secure the peace of some beloved object."

"What are these flowers, Miss Margaret?" said Tom, who evidently found it difficult to sustain his part in this very pathetic conversation.

"Do you not know they are orange blossoms—bridal ornaments?"

"Are they indeed?—and when do you, mean to wear them?"

"How can you ask—is such an event in the disposal of woman?"

"Do you wish to wear them?"

"I shall not tell you—fie! how can you ask?"

"Nay, do not scold me for the deep interest I take in you."

"You take an interest, indeed!" cried Margaret, laughing affectedly; "ah! I know you better."

"If you doubt my word, you don't know me at all—tell me, is there one of all those men in that bright assembly, for whom you would put on those mystic blossoms?"

"None, upon my word," cried she, again; "none for whom I would consent to deck myself—none who could tempt me to such a sacrifice of life and liberty."

"Is that possible?" exclaimed he, in an incredulous tone.

"True, indeed; but why should you ask; you care not for me—you take no interest in me—you profess much indeed—but you are a man of professions."

"Cruel assertion—you cannot believe it possible. I assure you I have the most feeling heart in the world."

"I am incredulous."

"You are unkind."

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