ty of pursuing the study. He found
Hope Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned that he had
shown her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and had
helped her to form juster opinions. It was natural she should think it
was Arthur who had helped her. She did not know that it was a very
different person who had done the work--a person whose name was Abel
Newt. For it was her changing character--changing in consequence of her
acquaintance with Abel--which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrived
upon her horizon at the moment of the change.

She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow he could
not divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his great
picture. There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her.
Has it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and
that--equally confounded Abel Newt? thought he.

For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel.

"He is certainly a handsome fellow," said Amy Waring. "I don't wonder at
his success."

"It's beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?" asked Arthur.

"Does what?" said she.

"Why, that gives what you call social success."

"Oh! I mean that I don't wonder such a handsome, bright, graceful;
accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty horses,
and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls and
their mothers. Don't you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?"

Lawrence Newt laughed.

"You don't mean Pelham?" said he.

"No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But you ought to
know your own nephew, Mr. Newt," answered Amy.

"Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him," said Mr. Newt.

"I don't exactly like him," said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor.

"I didn't know you knew him," replied Amy, looking up.

Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if he
did, so that he unwittingly spoke so.

"No, no," said he, hastily; "I don't know him, I believe; but I know
about him."

As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working,
in perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to his
inquiringly.

"I mean," said Arthur, quite confused, "that I don't--somehow--that is to
say, you know, there's a sort of impression you get about people--"

Lawrence Newt interposed--

"I suppose that Arthur doesn't like Abel for the same reason that oil
doesn't