"Don't ask me now," Rebecca said. "You shall know all soon. Indeed

you shall. Dear kind Miss Crawley--dear friend, may I say so?"

"That you may, my child," the old lady replied, kissing her.

"I can't tell you now," sobbed out Rebecca, "I am very miserable. But

O! love me always--promise you will love me always." And in the midst

of mutual tears--for the emotions of the younger woman had awakened the

sympathies of the elder--this promise was solemnly given by Miss

Crawley, who left her little protege, blessing and admiring her as a

dear, artless, tender-hearted, affectionate, incomprehensible creature.

And now she was left alone to think over the sudden and wonderful

events of the day, and of what had been and what might have been. What

think you were the private feelings of Miss, no (begging her pardon) of

Mrs. Rebecca? If, a few pages back, the present writer claimed the

privilege of peeping into Miss Amelia Sedley's bedroom, and

understanding with the omniscience of the novelist all the gentle pains

and passions which were tossing upon that innocent pillow, why should

he not declare himself to be Rebecca's confidante too, master of her

secrets, and seal-keeper of that young woman's conscience?

Well, then, in the first place, Rebecca gave way to some very sincere

and touching regrets that a piece of marvellous good fortune should

have been so near her, and she actually obliged to decline it. In this

natural emotion every properly regulated mind will certainly share.

What good mother is there that would not commiserate a penniless

spinster, who might have been my lady, and have shared four thousand a

year? What well-bred young person is there in all Vanity Fair, who

will not feel for a hard-working, ingenious, meritorious girl, who gets

such an honourable, advantageous, provoking offer, just at the very

moment when it is out of her power to accept it? I am sure our friend

Becky's disappointment deserves and will command every sympathy.

I remember one night being in the Fair myself, at an evening party. I

observed old Miss Toady there also present, single out for her special

attentions and flattery little Mrs. Briefless, the barrister's wife,

who is of a good family certainly, but, as we all know, is as poor as

poor can be.

What, I asked in my own mind, can cause this obsequiousness on the part

of Miss Toady; has Briefless got a county court, or has his wife had a

fortune left her? Miss Toady explained presently, with that simplicity

which distinguishes all her conduct. "You know," she said, "Mrs

Briefless is granddaughter of Sir John Redhand, who is so ill at

Cheltenham that he can't last six months. Mrs. Briefless's papa

succeeds; so you see she will be a baronet's daughter." And Toady asked

Briefless and his wife to dinner the very next week.




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