a brand plucked from the burning. I'll come home sighing like a furnace, and full of the savour and unction of dear Mr. Blatant's discourse—"
"Mr. Leighton," said I, dryly.
"Is Mr. Leighton a 'sweet preacher,' Helen—a 'dear, delightful, heavenly-minded man?'"
"He is a good man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much for you."
"Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest—but don't call me Mr. Huntingdon, my name is Arthur.'
"I'll call you nothing—for I'll have nothing at all to do with you, if you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as you say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on such a subject."
"I stand corrected," said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful sigh. "Now," resumed he, after a momentary pause, "let us talk about something else. And come nearer to me,
