Ethelind's delicacy took the alarm, and she resolved to crush her own growing attachment in the bud, and hide her feelings in reserve, and so great was her self–command, that her love for Mr. Barclay, was unsuspected by all save her mother.

As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning one evening from a long walk, and being very tired, they sat down on a bank facing the Towy to rest themselves, and watch the setting sun sink behind the undulating mountains that almost surrounded them. They were, for some minutes, so absorbed in the scene before them, that neither spoke; at last Beatrice exclaimed:—

"What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and Mr. Barclay never took it into your heads to fall in love with each other; you would make such a capital clergyman's wife."

"Beatrice!" said Ethelind, "why talk thus; do you mean to say that you have been insensible to his attachment to you?"

"I do not mean to say that," replied she, "but I can assure you, that if there is such a feeling, it is only on his side."

"And yet, you have not only received, but met his attentions with such evident pleasure, and given him such decided encouragement."

"Now, Ethy, how could I resist a flirtation with such an interesting character?"

"Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the pain you might inflict by leading him to suppose his affection was reciprocated."

"Never, my consciencious little Ethelind, he is too poor, nay, too good, for me to think seriously of becoming his wife."

"Oh, Beatrice! I thought you had a more noble heart than to trifle with the affections of such a man, particularly now there is a chance of recovering your property; you might be so happy, and make him so too."

"And do, you think, if I do recover it, I should throw myself away on a poor curate, and that I should like to lead such a quiet hum–drum life. No, my dear girl, I was never made to appreciate such goodness or imitate it either."

"Then, of course, you will alter your conduct, ere you go too far, and not render him wretched, perhaps for life."

"Of course, I shall do no such thing, his attentions are too pleasing; it does not appear he will be here long, so I must make the most of the time."

"Oh, Beatrice, think what havoc you may make in the happiness of a worthy man; look at his character; see his exemplary conduct; and could you, for the paltry gratification of your vanity, condemn him to the pangs of unrequited love. He has now, I fear, the ills of poverty to struggle against; did you notice his emotion when speaking of his mother and sisters? perhaps they are dependant on him,—you must not, shall not trifle with him thus."

"And why not, dearest Ethelind; I shall really begin to suspect you like him yourself; oh, that tell tale blush, how it becomes you."

"I think," said Ethelind, "any one would colour at such an accusation."

"Well then, to be honest, I have no heart to give."

"No heart to give! surely you are not engaged, and act thus?"

"I am, indeed."

"Cruel, heartless Beatrice," said Ethelind, "you cannot mean what you say."

"I do most solemnly affirm it; but I will tell you all bye and bye: now I cannot. I am smarting too much under you severe philippic, you shall indeed know all,—but," said the thoughtless girl, "let us go home, as your mother will be waiting tea, and Mr. Barclay with her."

"How can you face one you have so injured," said Ethelind, "I could not."

"When you see a little more of the world, you will call these little flirtations very venial errors."

"I hope," said Ethelind, "I shall never call wrong right, or right wrong ; neither, I trust, shall I ever act as if I thought so."

They reached home, and found tea ready, but Mr. Barclay was not there, nor did he visit them that evening, but about eight o'clock Mrs. Fortescue received a note, begging her to excuse him, as he had so much to attend to, preparatory to the family coming to the Park.

They saw no more of him during the week. On Sunday, he looked, Ethelind thought, very pale. Coming out of church he spoke to her mother, and she thought there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke, as if concealing some internal emotion. They made many conjectures as to the cause of this extraordinary conduct, but both Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind felt certain there must be some good reason, as caprice had, never since they had known him, formed any part of his conduct; they were, therefore, obliged to come to the conclusion, that if they knew it, they would find he had good reason for his conduct.

To Ethelind, when he met her alone, his manner was friendly as ever, but she fancied he had often avoided them, when she and Beatrice were together; sometimes she suspected he doubted Beatrice's sincerity. He sent books and fruit to Mrs. Fortescue, as usual, but rarely went to the cottage, and if he did, always timed his visits, so as to go when the younger ladies were out. He would however, saunter home with Ethelind, if alone, after the duties of the Sunday School, and consult her on many of his plans; in short, he daily became more like his former self.

The fact was, that the day on which Beatrice and Ethelind held the discussion, he had started to meet them, but feeling tired, sat down to rest on the very same bank they afterwards occupied: but the sun shining fully on it, he had retreated behind a large tree, and having fallen asleep, was awakened by their talking, and thus became an unintentional auditor of their conversation.

It was a thunderbolt to him, to hear Beatrice acknowledge herself positively engaged, and yet wilfully resolve to encourage his attentions, and thus trifle with his feelings. Before Beatrice came, he had been much pleased with the unaffected manner of Ethelind, whose character he highly respected; but her reserve made him conclude she was indifferent to him, but how did she rise in his estimation, as he heard the conversation. Not a word of her advice to Beatrice was lost on him, and he only wondered he had not done her more justice; how grateful he felt for the noble indignation she expressed at her friend's levity, and the honest warmth with which she took his part, and strove, as it were, to prevent his being betrayed by the heartless coquetry of Beatrice. He regarded all that had occurred as a special intervention of Providence to save him from future misery. His regard for Beatrice was daily increasing and believing her good and amiable, he desired to win the affection, which he fully thought was reciprocal; and how did the discovery of her treachery dash the cup of happiness from his lips; but as it was because he believed her truly amiable that he loved her, he thought, now the veil was drawn aside, he should soon get over his disappointment. But, unworthy as she was, she had so entwined herself in his heart, that it was no easy task to tear her image from it—however, he was strong–minded, and soon reflected that instead of grieving, he ought to be thankful for his escape. Ethelind saw he was wretched, and fancied Beatrice was, some how or other, the cause. She pitied him, and prayed for him, but it was all she could do; but she was not sorry to hear Beatrice say she had an invitation to Miss Fulton's wedding, which she was determined to accept. The night previous to her departure, Mr. Barclay, unasked, remained to tea, and when he took leave, he put a letter into the hand of Beatrice, which she slipped into her pocket, she thought, unseen by any one, but Ethelind saw it, though she took no notice, nor did Beatrice mention it Before retiring to rest, she read as follows:—

"My Dear Miss Trevor,