"Alas! yes," replied Belmont, gloomily; "but fate does not permit me
to mingle habitually in scenes like this. They only make my ordinary
life doubly gloomy--and even here I deem to see the shadow of a fiend
waving me away. What right have I to be here?"

"What fiend do you allude to?" asked Miss Heathcote, with increasing
interest.

"A fiend hardly presentable in good society," replied Belmont,
bitterly. "One could tolerate a Mephistophiles--a dignified fiend,
with his pockets full of money--but my tormentor, if personified,
would appear with seedy boots and a shocking bad hat."

"How absurd!"

"It is too true," sighed Belmont, "and the name of this fiend is
_Poverty_!"

"Are you poor?"

"Yes, madam. I am poor, and when I would fain render myself agreeable
in the eyes of beauty--in the eyes of one I could love, this fiend
whispers me, 'Beware! you have nothing to offer her but love in a
cottage.'"

"Mr. Belmont," said Julia, with sparkling eyes, and a voice of unusual
animation, "although there are sordid souls in this world, who only
judge of the merits of an individual by his pecuniary possessions, I
am not one of that number. I respect poverty; there is something
highly poetical about it, and I imagine that happiness is oftener