impediment, the Reverend Jones, would
not be removed—was recalcitrant—inert—
pugnacious and finally sick and in bed.
Captain Mildboy, who had taken the
strongest fancy to me, worked desperately
at the Committee; but without result. So
I was left stranded, as it were, at the
edge of the waters—heartily sickened of
the world, and its wretched men and women.
The only being whom I regarded with any
interest, as having that tiling popularly
known as a heart, was Emilia Matilda
Mildboy. Sweetest Bo-opis! I could see that
she looked on me with a mysterious homage.
I would lay open this poor bosom to her at
the earliest opportunity: meantime wander
about gloomily.

I sought on various occasions to lay bare
(figuratively of course) my bosom to gentle
Bo-opis. I felt that from that operation I
should derive ineffable comfort. Strange to
say, it seemed to me that she strove to avoid
my presence. I surprised her on several
occasions, fleeing away through the trees like a
frighted fawn. The large eyes became
downcast of a sudden when I drew near, as the
plaintive song has it:

              We met, 'twas in a crowd,
                     I thought she would shun me.

Not merely in a crowd, but in private and in
sequestered places. Of a sudden it all flashed
upon me at once! Dare she trust herself to
this growing intimacy: she, who had plighted
her troth to another? Did she feel there
was danger near, and that she was, as it were,
standing on the end of a precipice! Was it
to be ever thus my destiny to walk through
life: thus innocently ensnaring young and
trusting hearts, and poisoning the sweet
draught at their lips? I call the gentle
powers of truth to be my witness that I
would not play so Mephistophelistic a part
wittingly. Appalling thought this, that I
was all the days of my life to be thus
acting the villain with a smiling cheek. It
was too horrible!

There was but one course open to me—
namely, to fly; that is, to freeze up the
advances of the seductive Bo-opis—to be
rough, cold, disagreeable, and even brutish if
necessary. I would be true to my confiding
friend. It would be a struggle; but I would
triumph. In the silent hours of the night I
came to this resolution.

A note was put into my hand next morning,
which, to distinguish it from others
I have received in this matter, I shall call—

                         LETTER A.

DEAR MR. HOBLUSH,—I wish to speak with you
very much—to consult with you—to be advised.
There are things I dare not write—which may be
only spoken. I have avoided you for days back, for
certain reasons. I am watched, and my steps are
dogged. I will explain all when we meet. Think
of me as you will—as forward, unfeminine; but I
know not what I write, or do. To you I look
counsel.
                                                 Yours,
                                                          BOWPIS.
N.B.—Towards four o'clock to-day, I shall be under
a shady tree on the hill; reading.       B.

It is impossible to describe the conflicting
emotions with which this letter filled me!
Bowpis!—she had caught up the word
(though a little irregularly spelt) from my
lips. I would not go. Fly, fly! something
whispered to me, 'ere it be too late. The
threads are being drawn about you, wretched
Hoblush. Here are elements for hate, love,
murder, revenge, and suicide! I trembled at
the thought. What if Twist, infuriated by
jealousy, his brain excited by the waters,
which I understand have a morbidly inflaming
influence, were to offer personal violence to
me? Would my cloth—my neckcloth that is—
protect me? Perhaps not. Would it not be
better to withdraw to a place of security in a
quiet and unostentatious manner, and thus
put off the dangerous instances of this young
person?

An hour is gone by and I am still lost in
thought. Another letter is put into my
hand marked "Private and confidential."
This is marked (the second of the series)

                      LETTER B.

DEAR SIR,—From a certain change in the manners
and habits of my son, I begin to suspect that
all is not right with him. This place is so full of
designing persons, that the worst may be
apprehended. I am in such poor health, that I cannot
go abroad and look after him as much as he
requires. In you, I think I have found a friend.
Watch over him, and let me know the slightest
symptom of danger. He must marry the pauper
countess, or be content with one shilling.
                                                      JOSEPH TWIST.
P.S.—I have just heard, a few days since, that
the Vicar of Puddlebury (on my estate) is failing.
It is a snug thing, and in my gift.                  J. T.

The struggle that arose in this poor bosom
on the receipt of this second document,
may be more easily imagined than described.
All the passions of our nature were at once
contending for mastery. Duty to my young
friend, who had confided in me; to the
gentle girl whose absorbing passion had
prompted her to so bold a step, and who was
ready to cast all behind her for her love;
and finally to that affectionate old man, whose
heart was centred in his son's advancement.
There was a certain obscurity in that
postscript of his which I should like to have
cleared up. What was Puddlebury or its
vicar to me? Was there not a vagueness
and unmeaning generality in the form of
phrase? I like to have men speak out, and
say plainly what they have to say. Then the
youth—no communication from him at all.
Why should I lend myself to forward his
selfish plans? Love, or duty, which was it to
be? I was distracted, and finally determined to