To speak the truth, the reformer’s punishment was certainly come upon him, for his present plight was not enviable; he had nothing for it but to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it is by no means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on Mr. Harding’s character. His position was certainly a cruel one: had any gentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr. Harding he could of course have declined to enter upon the subject; but how could he do so with a beautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had injured, with his own love?

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned up her energies.

“Mr. Bold,” said she, “I have come here to implore you to abandon this proceeding.”

He stood up from his seat, and looked beyond measure distressed.

“To implore you to abandon it, to implore you to spare my father, to spare either his life or his reason, for one or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything; but I think you will listen to me as it is for my father. Oh, Mr. Bold, pray, pray do this for us—pray do not drive to distraction a man who has loved you so well.”

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he moved from his chair, and laid her soft hands imploringly upon his arm. Ah! at any other time how exquisitely valuable would have been that touch! but now he was distraught, dumb-founded, and unmanned. What could he say to that sweet suppliant; how explain to her that the matter now was probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quell the storm which he had raised?

“Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her,” said his sister.

“I would give her my soul,” said he, “if it would serve her.”

“Oh, Mr. Bold,” said Eleanor, “do not speak so; I ask nothing for myself; and what I ask for my father, it cannot harm you to grant.”

“I would give her my soul, if it would serve her,” said Bold, still addressing his sister; “everything I have is hers, if she will accept it; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred in her: her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her in sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers. No man can love better than I love her.”

“No, no, no,” ejaculated Eleanor, “there can be no talk of love between us; will you protect my father from the evil you have brought upon him?”

“Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything; let me tell you how I love you!”

“No, no, no,” she almost screamed; “this is unmanly of you, Mr. Bold. Will you, will you, will you leave my father to die in peace in his quiet home?” and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed him across the room towards the door. “I will not leave you till you promise me; I’ll cling to you in the street; I’ll kneel to you before all the people. You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this, you shall——” And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated her resolve with hysterical passion.

“Speak to her, John, answer her,” said Mary, bewildered by the unexpected vehemence of Eleanor’s manner; “you cannot have the cruelty to refuse her.”

“Promise me, promise me,” said Eleanor; “say that my father is safe—one word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and I will let you go.”

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face with her hair dishevelled, and her eyes all bloodshot. She had no thought now of herself, no care now for her appearance, and yet he thought he had never seen her half so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of her beauty, and could hardly believe that it