sweetheart," he had said to himself; "no good will come of courting
her." But by degrees the flax bonds of prudence snapped one by one as
the flame every now and then darted at them. Meadows began to reason
the matter coolly.

"They can never marry, those two. I wish they would marry or break
off, to put me out of this torture; but they can't marry, and my sweet
Susan is wasting her prime for nothing, for a dream. Besides, it is
not as if she loved him the way I love her. She is like many a young
maid. The first comer gets her promise before she knows her value.
They walk together, get spoken of; she settles down into a groove, and
so goes on, whether her heart is in it or not; it is habit more than
anything."

Then he watched the pair, and observed that Susan's manner to George
was cool and off-hand, and that she did not seem to seek opportunities
of being alone with him.

Having got so far, he now felt it his duty to think of her interest.

He could not but feel that he was a great match for any farmer's
daughter; whereas "poor young Fielding," said he compassionately, "is
more likely to break as a bachelor than to support a wife and children
upon 'The Grove.'"

He next allowed his mind to dwell with some bitterness upon the poor
destiny that stood between him and the woman he loved.

"George Fielding! a dull dog, that could be just as happy with any
other girl as with my angel. An oaf, so little alive to his prize that