at me. My face, I believe,
expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.

"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--might--might
die, Mr. Wynne."

"In novels," said I with a smile, "while there's death, there's hope."

"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.

The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I
pressed her hand. It was enough, the tears leaped to her eyes; she
gave my great fist a hurried squeeze--I have seldom been more touched
by any thanks, how ever warm or eloquent--and hurried away.

V.

'TWIXT WILL AND WILL NOT.

I must confess at once that at first, at least, I very much admired the
curate. I am not referring to my admiration of his fine figure--six
feet high and straight as an arrow--nor of his handsome, open,
ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or his thick curly hair.
No; what won my heart from an early period of my visit to my cousins,
the Poltons, of Poltons Park, was the fervent, undisguised, unashamed,
confident, and altogether matter-of-course manner in which he made love
to Miss Beatrice Queenborough, only daughter and heiress of the wealthy
shipowner, Sir Wagstaff Queenborough, Bart., and Eleanor, his wife. It
was purely the manner of the curate's advances that took my fancy; in
the mere fact of them there was nothing remarkable. For all the men in
the house (and a good many outside) made covert, stealthy, and indirect
steps in the same direction; for Trix (as her friends called her) was,
if not wise, at least pretty and witty, displaying to the material eye
a charming figure, and to the mental a delicate heartlessness--both
attributes which challenge a self-respecting man's best efforts. But
then came the fatal obstacle. From heiresses in reason a gentleman
need neither shrink nor let himself be driven; but when it comes to
something like twenty thousand a year--the reported amount of Trix's
dot--he distrusts his own motives almost as much as the lady's
relatives distrust them for him. We all felt this--Stanton, Rippleby,
and I; and, although I will not swear that we spoke no tender words and
gave no meaning glances, yet we reduced such concessions to natural
weakness to a minimum, not only when Lady Queenborough was by, but at
all times. To say truth, we had no desire to see our scalps affixed to
Miss Trix's pretty belt, nor to have our hearts broken (like that of
the young man in the poem) be