called me--"how like
you, to think of me--of me, at such a time, as if I was not the cause of
all our present unhappiness--but not wilfully, not intentionally. Oh,
no, no--your attentions--the flattery of your notice, took me at once,
and, in the gratification of my self-esteem, I forgot all else. I heard,
too, that you were engaged to another, and believing, as I did, that you
were trifling with my affections, I spared no effort to win your's. I
confess it, I wished this with all my soul."

"And now," said I, "that you have gained them"--Here was a pretty sequel
to my well matured plans!--"And now Emily"--

"But have I really done so?" said she, hurriedly turning round and fixing
her large full eyes upon me, while one of her hands played convulsively
through my hair--"have I your heart? your whole heart?"

"Can you doubt it, dearest," said I, passionately pressing her to my
bosom; and at the same time muttering, "What the devil's in the wind now;
we are surely not going to patch up our separation, and make love in
earnest."

There she lay, her head upon my shoulder, her long, brown, waving
ringlets falling loosely across my face and on my bosom, her hand in
mine. What were her thoughts I cannot guess--mine, God forgive me, were
a fervent wish either for her mother's appearance, or that the hotel
would suddenly take fire, or some other extensive calamity arise to put
the finishing stroke to this embarassing situation.

None of these, however, were destined to occur; and Emily lay still and
motionless as she was, scarce seeming to breathe, and pale as death.
What can this mean, said I, surely this is not the usual way to treat
with a rejected suitor; if it be, why then, by Jupiter the successful one
must have rather the worst of it--and I fervently hope that Lady Jane be
not at this moment giving his conge to some disappointed swain. She
slowly raised her long, black fringed eyelids, and looked into my face,
with an expression at once so tender and so plaintive, that I felt a
struggle within myself whether to press her to my heart, or--what the
deuce was the alternative. I hope my reader knows, for I really do not.
And after all, thought I, if we are to marry, I am only anticipating a
little; and if not, why then a "chaste salute," as Winifred Jenkins calls
it, she'll be none the worse for. Acting at once upon this resolve, I
leaned downwards, and passing back her ringlets from her now flushed
cheek, I was s