trinkets—of her being in such grievous distress, and all for me—very much impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute or so, though I did my best to disguise it.

“There is nothing I can say, Sir,” I returned, “except that all the blame is mine. Dora—”

“Miss Spenlow, if you please,” said her father, majestically.

“—was induced and persuaded by me,” I went on, swallowing that colder designation, “to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.”

“You are very much to blame, Sir,” said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and fro upon the hearth-rug, and emphasising what he said with his whole body instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his cravat and spine. “You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield. When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits a dishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.”

“I feel it, Sir, I assure you,” I returned. “But I never thought so, before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent—”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. “Pray don’t tell me to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!”

“Could I defend my conduct if I did not, Sir?” I returned, with all humility.

“Can you defend your conduct if you do, Sir?” said Mr. Spenlow, stopping short upon the hearth-rug. “Have you considered your years, and my daughter’s years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should subsist between my daughter and myself? Have you considered my daughter’s station in life, the projects I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions I may have with reference to her? Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield?”

“Very little, Sir, I am afraid;” I answered, speaking to him as respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; “but pray believe me, I have considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were already engaged—”

“I beg,” said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen him, as he energetically struck one hand upon the other—I could not help noticing that even in my despair, “that you will NOT talk to me of engagements, Mr. Copperfield!”

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in one short syllable.

“When I explained my altered position to you, Sir,” I began again, substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable to him, “this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have led Miss Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position, I have strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time—any length of time? We are both so young, Sir—”

“You are right,” interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great many times, and frowning very much, “you are both very young. It’s all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow’s letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don’t want sense; and this is the sensible course.”

No. I couldn’t think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I didn’t exactly