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ights--and all my fault--I am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in pure despair, will follow my example. I was the very life and prop of the community, they do me the honour to say, and I have shamefully betrayed my trust--' 'You may join them again, if you like,' said I, somewhat piqued at the sorrowful tone of his discourse. 'I should be sorry to stand between any man--or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage to do without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.' 'Bless you, no,' murmured he. 'It's "all for love or the world well lost," with me. Let them go to--where they belong, to speak politely. But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more for having ventured so much for your sake.' He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them to me, and told him I did not wish to see them. 'I'm not going to show them to you, love,' said he. 'They're hardly fit for a lady's eyes--the most part of them. But look here. This is Grimsby's scrawl--only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn't say much, to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others' words, and the less he says, the more he thinks--and this is Hargrave's missive. He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had fallen in love with you from his sister's reports, and meant to have married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.' 'I'm vastly obliged to him,' observed I. 'And so am I,' said he. 'And look at this. This is Hattersley's--every page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable complaints, ending up with swearing that he'll get married himself in revenge: he'll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to set her cap at him,--as if I cared what he did with himself.' 'Well,' said I, 'if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I don't think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their society; for it's my belief they never did you much good.' 'Maybe not; but we'd a merry time of it, too, though mingled with sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost--Ha, ha!' and while he was laughing at the recollection of Lowborough's troubles, my uncle came and slapped him on the shoulder. 'Come, my lad!' said he. 'Are you too busy making love to my niece to make war with the pheasants?--First of October, remember! Sun shines out--rain ceased--even Boarham's not
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