`And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman of the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband.'

`Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?'

`As everybody loves--You're silly, Nelly.'

`Not at all--Answer.'

`I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!'

`And why?'

`Nay; you are making a jest of it; it is exceedingly ill-natured! It's no jest to me!' said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to the fire.

`I'm very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,' I replied. `You love Mr Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him without that, probably; and with it you wouldn't, unless he possessed the four former attractions.'

`No, to be sure not: I should only pity him--hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly, and a clown.'

`But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world: handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?'

`If there be any, they are out of my way! I've seen none like Edgar.'

`You may see some; and he won't always be handsome, and young, and may not always be rich.'

`He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally.'

`Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry Mr Linton.'

`I don't want your permission for that--I shall marry him: and yet you have not told me whether I'm right.'

`Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will escape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and easy: where is the obstacle?'

`Here! and here!' replied Catherine, striking one hand on her forehead, and the other on her breast: `in whichever place the soul lives. In my soul and in my heart, I'm convinced I'm wrong!'

`That's very strange! I cannot make it out.'

`It's my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I'll explain it: I can't do it distinctly: but I'll give you a feeling of how I feel.'

She seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder and graver, and her clasped hands trembled.

`Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?' she said, suddenly, after some minutes' reflection.

`Yes, now and then,' I answered.