attached to Mr. Glentworth." This idea had entered Mrs. Palmer's imagination; she thought that perhaps she had been mistaken in Isabella's feelings, and that she was, in mistaken disinterestedness, sacrificing her self to the good of her family. "I love him to a degree that I do not understand. It is wonderful that a stranger should be dearer to me than those whom I have loved and known for years—yet, dearer is he to me; I would forsake all, and follow him alone."
"Very natural, and very proper," replied Mrs. Palmer; "but what, then, is the matter with you?"
"I will tell you," answered Isabella, in a choked voice—"I love him! but he does not love me!"
Mrs. Palmer started. "What does he marry you for, then?"
"Kindness!—pity," replied she, "for the orphans of his friend!"
"Gentlemen do not often marry for such praise worthy reasons," replied Mrs. Palmer, who would certainly have laughed, if her young friend had looked less serious.
"If there ever was any body kind and good, it is yourself," exclaimed Isabella; "read this letter," giving Mr. Glentworth's, "and tell me whether I have not cause to be unhappy."
Mrs. Palmer drew the candle towards her, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read. Isabella thought she never would have finished; and when the letter was ended, the old lady deliberately began and read it over again. "A very kind, considerate letter,"
