to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, _do_ give
me your real opinion of his character, his disposition."

"His character stands high, and deservedly high."

"And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition," she urged; "you
know him well."

"I know him pretty well."

"You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak of
him as a son."

"He is a fine-hearted son; his mother's comfort and hope, her pride and
pleasure."

She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a
little caressing stroke.

"In what other way is he good, Lucy?"

"Dr. Bretton is benevolent--humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr.
Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worst
criminal."

"I heard some gentlemen, some of papa's friends, who were talking about
him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals,
who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him."

"They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a
hospital; I saw how he was received: your father's friends are right."

The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She
had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk
was beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight
ruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.

"How quiet and secluded we feel here!" I remarked, to reassure her.

"Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down to
tea; papa is dining out."

Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously,
dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twine
of her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, and
at last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark's,
she said:--

"You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr.
Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but--".

"Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him."

"And if I did," said she, with slight quickness, "is that a reason why
I should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?"

"If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit here
waiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about
the room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on."

"I mean to go on," retorted she; "what else do you suppose I mean to
do?"

An