blush, and began to tremble violently. I led her to a garden-seat. I
seized her hand--it was not withdrawn. I pressed it;--I thought the
pressure was returned. I flung myself on my knees, and then I poured
into her ear a little speech which I had made on the top of the coach.
"Divine Miss Crutty," said I; "idol of my soul! It was but to catch one
glimpse of you that I passed through this garden. I never intended to
breathe the secret passion" (oh, no; of course not) "which was wearing
my life away. You know my unfortunate pre-engagement--it is broken,
and FOR EVER! I am free;--free, but to be your slave,--your humblest,
fondest, truest slave!" And so on. . . . .

"Oh, Mr. Stubbs," said she, as I imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, "I
can't refuse you; but I fear you are a sad naughty man. . . . ."

Absorbed in the delicious reverie which was caused by the dear
creature's confusion, we were both silent for a while, and should have
remained so for hours perhaps, so lost were we in happiness, had I not
been suddenly roused by a voice exclaiming from behind us--

"DON'T CRY, MARY! HE IS A SWINDLING, SNEAKING SCOUNDREL, AND YOU ARE
WELL RID OF HIM!"

I turned round. O heaven, there stood Mary, weeping on Doctor Bates's
arm, while that miserable apothecary was looking at me with the utmost
scorn. The gardener, who had let me in, had told them of my arrival,
and now stood grinning behind them. "Imperence!" was my Magdalen's only
exclamation, as she flounced by with the utmost self-possession, while
I, glancing daggers at the SPIES, followed her. We retired to the
parlor, where she repeated to me the strongest assurances of her love.