but, as that cannot be explained to every body, she fears that I may keep off other and more eligible lovers." Isabella tried to speak, but the words died in utterance. "In short, whether I shall be obliged to give up visiting altogether depends upon yourself. As the husband of one of you, no exception could be taken. Tell me, truly, my dear, do you think that I could make you happy as my wife?" Isabella's eyes, that had hitherto been fixed on Mr. Glentworth's, half-wonder, half-regret, were now cast down—again a sweet colour mantled her cheek.
"Happy!" murmured a voice so low as to be almost inaudible—"Do you not make every one near you happy?" Could consent be given more graciously or more gracefully?—Mr. Glentworth felt that he had sealed his fate; he was dizzy, confused, and sought in vain to speak. Mechanically he retained the hand that trembled in his own—but Isabella needed no protestations—one word from his mouth had been enough, and she sat in silent "measureless content." She was yet too happy to wonder at her own good fortune.
"Isabella," exclaimed he, starting up, "I will write to you this evening; I cannot speak all I could wish; read my letter carefully; think before you decide. I shall send for the answer in the morning. God bless you!" Isabella held her breath to hear his last step; she sprang to the window, and watched long after he was out of sight; she then hurried into
