few trifling preliminaries, he asked me if I had considered the subject of
our yesterday's conversation. I answered that I had supposed that subject
to have been dismissed forever. It was not possible for time or argument
to bring us to the same way of thinking on it. I hoped, therefore, that he
would not compel me to discuss it a second time.

Instead of flying into rage, as I expected, he fixed his eyes
thoughtfully on the floor, and, after a melancholy pause, said, "I
expected to find you invincible on that head. To say truth, I came not to
discuss that subject with you anew. I came merely to ask a trifling
favour." Here he stopped. He was evidently at a loss how to proceed. His
features became more grave, and he actually sighed.

My heart, I believe thou knowest, Harry, is the sport, the mere
plaything, of gratitude and pity. Kindness will melt my firmest
resolutions in a moment. Entreaty will lead me to the world's end. Gentle
accents, mournful looks, in my brother, was a claim altogether
irresistible. The mildness, the condescension which I now witnessed
thrilled to my heart. A grateful tear rushed to my eye, and I almost
articulated, "Dear, dear brother, be always thus kind and thus good, and I
will lay down my life for you."

It was well for us both that my brother had too much pride or too
little cunning to profit by the peculiarities of my temper. Had he put a
brotherly arm around me, and said, in an affectionate tone, "Dear sister,
oblige me," I am afraid I should have instantly complied with the most
indiscreet and extravagant of his requests.

Far otherwise, however, was his deportment. This condescension was
momentary. The words had scarcely escaped him before he seemed to