rest of her own, or merely a desire to
serve the interest of her friend, Captain Garland,) showed a disposition
to engross the attentions of Sir Frederic Beaumantle as often as he made
his appearance at Lipscombe Park. Now, as that lady was undoubtedly of
good family, and possessed of considerable fortune, the baronet was not
a little flattered by the interest which a person who had these
excellent qualifications for a judge, manifestly took in his
conversation. In an equal degree was his dignity offended at the
preference shown by Miss Sherwood for Captain Garland, a man, as he
said, but of yesterday, and not in any one point of view to be put in
comparison with himself. He almost resolved to punish her levity by
withdrawing his suit. The graver manner, and somewhat more mature age of
Miss Danvers were also qualities which he was obliged to confess were
somewhat in her favour.

The result of all this was, that one fine morning Sir Frederic
Beaumantle might have been seen walking to and fro in his own park, with
a troubled step, bearing in his hand a letter--most elaborately
penned--carefully written out--sealed--but not directed. It was an
explicit declaration of his love, a solemn offer of his hand; it was
only not quite determined to whom it should be sent. As the letter
contained very little that referred to the lady, and consisted almost
entirely of an account, not at all disparaging, of himself and his own
good qualities, it was easy for him to proceed thus far upon his
delicate negotiation, although the main question--to whom the letter was
to be addressed--was not yet decided. This letter had indeed been a
_labour of love_. It was as little written for Miss Sherwood as for Miss
Danvers. It was composed for the occasion whenever that might arise; and
for these ten years past it had been lying in his desk, receiving from
time to time fresh touches and emendations. The necessity of making use
of this epistle, which had now attained a state of painful perfection,
we venture to say had some share in impelling him into matrimony. To
some one it must be sent, or how could it appear to any advantage in
those "Memoirs of Sir Frederic Beaumantle," which, some future day, were
to console the world for his decease, and the prospect of which (for he
saw them already in beautiful hot-pressed quarto) almost consoled
himself for the necessity of dying? The _intended_ love-letter!--this
would have an air of ridicule, while the r