a fact sure; but it was equally certain that he must be
rejected. She could not be understood as saying, Make my

father free and I am the reward. There would be no sacrifice
in that--not so had Jephthah's daughter saved her father--

not so could she show to that kindest, dearest of parents how
much she was able to bear for his good. No; to one resolve

must her whole soul be bound; and so resolving, she felt that
she could make her great request to Bold with as much self-

assured confidence as she could have done to his grandfather.
And now I own I have fears for my heroine; not as to the

upshot of her mission--not in the least as to that; as to the
full success of her generousscheme, and the ultimate result of

such a project, no one conversant with human nature and
novels can have a doubt; but as to the amount of sympathy

she may receive from those of her own sex. Girls below twenty and
old ladies above sixty will do her justice; for in the female heart

the soft springs of sweet romance reopen after many years, and
again gush out with waters pure as in earlier days, and greatly

refresh the path that leads downwards to the grave. But I fear
that the majority of those between these two eras will not approve

of Eleanor's plan. I fear that unmarried ladies of thirty-five
will declare that there can be no probability of so absurd a

project being carried through; that young women on their knees
before their lovers are sure to get kissed, and that they would

not put themselves in such a position did they not expect it;
that Eleanor is going to Bold only because circumstances prevent

Bold from coming to her; that she is certainly a little fool, or a
little schemer, but that in all probability she is thinking a

good deal more about herself than her father.
Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of the

circumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding's character.
Miss Harding was much younger than you are, and could not,

therefore, know, as you may do, to what dangers such an
encounter might expose her. She may get kissed; I think it very

probable that she will; but I give my solemn word and positive
assurance, that the remotest idea of such a catastrophe never

occurred to her as she made the great resolve now alluded to.
And then she slept; and then she rose refreshed; and met

her father with her kindest embrace and most loving smiles;
and on the whole their breakfast was by no means so triste as

had been their dinner the day before; and then, making some
excuse to her father for so soon leaving him, she started on the

commencement of her operations.
She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, therefore,

the scene itself could not be enacted today; but she also
knew that he was soon to be home, probably on the next day,

and it was necessary that some little plan for meeting him
should be concerted with his sister Mary. When she got up to

the house, she went, as usual, into the morning sitting-room,
and was startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat, and

sundry parcels which were lying about, that Bold must already
have returned.

'John has come back so suddenly,' said Mary, coming into
the room; 'he has been travelling all night.'

'Then I'll come up again some other time,' said Eleanor,
about to beat a retreat in her sudden dismay.

'He's out now, and will be for the next two hours,' said the
other; 'he's with that horrid Finney; he only came to see

him, and he returns by the mail train tonight.'
Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself,

as she strove to screw up her courage--away again tonight--then it
must be now or never; and she again sat down, having risen to go.

She wished the ordeal could have been postponed: she had
fully made up her mind to do the deed, but she had not made

up her mind to do it this very day; and now she felt ill at ease,
astray, and in difficulty.

'Mary,' she began, 'I must see your brother before he goes back.'
'Oh yes, of course,' said the other; 'I know he'll be delighted

to see you'; and she tried to treat it as a matter of course,
but she was not the less surprised; for Mary and Eleanor had

daily talked over John Bold and his conduct, and his love, and
Mary would insist on calling Eleanor her sister, and would scold

her for not calling Bold by his Christian name; and Eleanor
would half confess her love, but like a modestmaiden would

protest against such familiarities even with the name of her
lover; and so they talked hour after hour, and Mary Bold, who

was much the elder, looked forward with happy confidence to the
day when Eleanor would not be ashamed to call her her sister.

She was, however, fully sure that just at present Eleanor would
be much more likely to avoid her brother than to seek him.

'Mary, I must see your brother, now, today, and beg from
him a great favour'; and she spoke with a solemn air, not at

all usual to her; and then she went on, and opened to her
friend all her plan, her well-weighed scheme for saving her

father from a sorrow which would, she said, if it lasted, bring
him to his grave. 'But, Mary,' she continued, 'you must now,

you know, cease any joking about me and Mr Bold; you must
now say no more about that; I am not ashamed to beg this

favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there can
never be anything further between us'; and this she said with

a staid and solemn air, quite worthy of Jephthah's daughter
or of Iphigenia either.

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument.
That Eleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf of her father, to

Bold's better feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it
seemed quite natural that he should relent, overcome by

such filial tears, and by so much beauty; but, to her thinking,
it was at any rate equally natural, that having relented, John

should put his arm round his mistress's waist, and say: 'Now
having settled that, let us be man and wife, and all will end

happily!' Why his good nature should not be rewarded,
when such reward would operate to the disadvantage of none,

Mary, who had more sense than romance, could not understand;
and she said as much.

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent
speech to support her own view of the question: she could not

condescend, she said, to ask such a favour on any other terms
than those proposed. Mary might, perhaps, think her high-

flown, but she had her own ideas, and she could not submit to
sacrifice her self-respect.

'But I am sure you love him--don't you?' pleaded Mary;
'and I am sure he loves you better than anything in the world.'

Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a tear came
to each eye, and she could not; so she pretended to blow her

nose, and walked to the window, and made a little inward call
on her own courage, and finding herself somewhat sustained,

said sententiously: 'Mary, this is nonsense.'
'But you do love him,' said Mary, who had followed her

friend to the window, and now spoke with her arms close
wound round the other's waist. 'You do love him with all

your heart--you know you do; I defy you to deny it.'
'I--' commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute

the charge; but the intended falsehood stuck in her throat,
and never came to utterance. She could not deny her love,

so she took plentifully to tears, and leant upon her friend's
bosom and sobbed there, and protested that, love or no love,

it would make no difference in her resolve, and called Mary,
a thousand times, the most cruel of girls, and swore her to