ned that his supposed rival was so anxious to assist him. He was
quite willing to be guided by Graham, and, in that matter of the
proposed partnership, was sure that old Balsam, the owner of the
business, would be glad to take a sum of money down. "He has a son
of his own," said Albert, "but he don't take to it at all. He's gone
into wine and spirits; but he don't sell half as much as he drinks."

Felix then proposed that he should call on Mrs. Fitzallen, and to
this Albert gave a blushing consent. "Mother has heard of it," said
Albert, "but I don't exactly know how." Perhaps Mrs. Fitzallen was as
attentive as Mrs. Thomas had been to stray documents packed away in
odd places. "And I suppose I may call on--on--Mary?" asked the lover,
as Graham took his leave. But Felix could give no authority for this,
and explained that Mrs. Thomas might be found to be a dragon still
guarding the Hesperides. Would it not be better to wait till Mary's
father had been informed? and then, if all things went well, he might
prosecute the affair in due form and as an acknowledged lover.

All this was very nice, and as it was quite unexpected, Fitzallen
could not but regard himself as a fortunate young man. He had never
contemplated the possibility of Mary Snow being an heiress. And when
his mother had spoken to him of the hopelessness of his passion, she
had suggested that he might perhaps marry his Mary in five or six
years. Now the dearest wish of his heart was brought close within
his reach, and he must have been a happy man. But yet, though this
certainly was so, nevertheless, there was a feeling of coldness about
his love, and almost of disappointment as he again took his place
behind the counter. The sorrows of Lydia in the play when she finds
that her passion meets with general approbation are very absurd
but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature. Lovers would be great
losers if the path of love were always to run smooth. Under such a
dispensation, indeed, there would probably be no lovers. The matter
would be too tame. Albert did not probably bethink himself of a
becoming disguise, as did Lydia,--of an amiable ladder of ropes,
of a conscious moon, or a Scotch parson; but he did feel, in some
undefined manner, that the romance of his life had been taken away
from him. Five minutes under a lamp-post with Mary Snow was sweeter
to him than the promise of a whole bevy of evenings spent in the same
society, with all the comforts of his m