ut me out of my misery?"

"If I have been blind to your feelings I have not been blind to your
merit, Jacob. Perhaps I have not been blind to your feelings, and I am
not of the same disposition as Mary Stapleton. I think you may venture
to dine here to-day," continued she, colouring and smiling, as she
turned away to the window.

"I can hardly believe that I'm to be so happy, Sarah," replied I,
agitated. "I have been fortunate, very fortunate; but the hopes you
have now raised are so much beyond my expectations--so much beyond my
deserts--that I dare not indulge in them. Have pity on me, and be more
explicit."

"What do you wish me to say?" replied Sarah, looking down upon her work,
as she turned round to me.

"That you will not reject the orphan who was fostered by your father,
and who reminds you of what he was, that you may not forget at this
moment what I trust is the greatest bar to his presumption--his humble
origin."

"Jacob, that was said like yourself--it was nobly said; and if you were
not born noble, you have true nobility of mind. I will imitate your
example. Have I not often, during our long friendship, told you that I
loved you?"

"Yes, as a child you did, Sarah."

"Then, as a woman, I repeat it. And now are you satisfied?"

I took Sarah by the hand; she did not withdraw it, but allowed me to
kiss it over and over again.

"But your father and mother, Sarah?"

"Would never have allowed our intimacy if they had not approved of it,
Jacob, depend upon it. However, you may make yourself easy on that
score by letting them know what has passed; and then, I presume, you
will be out of your misery."

Before the day was over I had spoken to Mrs Drummond, and requested her
to open the business to her husband, as I really felt it more than I
could dare to do. She smiled as her daughter hung upon her neck; and
when I met Mr Drummond at dinner-time I was "out of my misery," for he
shook me by the hand, and said, "You have made us all very happy, Jacob;
for that girl appears determined either to marry you or not to marry at
all. Come; dinner is ready."

I will leave the reader to imagine how happy I was, what passed between
Sarah and me in our _tete-a-tete_ of that evening, how unwilling I was
to quit the house, and how I ordered a post-chaise to carry me home,
because I was afraid to trust myself on that water on which the major
part of my life had been safely passed, lest any accident should h