ictest scrutiny, I am certain Stephen
Bloundel will never consent to your union with his daughter."

"Nay, mother," observed Amabel, "you judge the gentleman unjustly. I am
sure he is neither a profligate gallant himself, nor a companion of
such--especially of the wicked Earl of Rochester."

"I pretend to be no better than I am," replied the young man, repressing
a smile that rose to his lips at Mrs. Bloundel's address; "but I shall
reform when I am married. It would be impossible to be inconstant to so
fair a creature as Amabel. For my rank, I have none. My condition is
that of a private gentleman,--my name, Maurice Wyvil."

"What you say of yourself, Mr. Maurice Wyvil, convinces me you will meet
with a decided refusal from my husband," returned Mrs. Bloundel.

"I trust not," replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel. "If I should
be so fortunate as to gain _his_ consent, have I _yours_?"

"It is too soon to ask that question," she rejoined, blushing deeply.
"And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must. You distress my mother."

"If I do not distress _you_, I will stay," resumed Wyvil, with an
imploring look.

"You _do_ distress me," she answered, averting her gaze.

"Nay, then, I must tear myself away," he rejoined. "I shall return
shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is
represented."

He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a kiss,
if her mother had not rushed between them.

"No more familiarities, sir," she cried angrily; "no court manners here.
If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more
decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance--none whatever."

"Time will show," replied Wyvil, audaciously. "You had better give her
to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,--for have
her I will."

"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; "now his wicked
intentions are out."

"Fear nothing, mother," observed Amabel, coldly. "He will scarcely carry
me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice myself
for one who holds me in such light esteem."

"Forgive me, Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, in a voice so penitent that it
instantly effaced her displeasure; "I meant not to offend. I spoke only
the language of distraction. Do not dismiss me thus, or my death will
lie at your door."

"I should be sorry for that," she replied; "but, inexperienced as I am,
I feel this is not the language of real reg