Whatever I have or subsequently inherit--and it's five hundred a year at the very least--would be settled upon her and--and--and you at my death--that is." "What the deuce do you mean ?--and what have I to do with your money ?" cried out Pen, in a puzzle.
"Arthur, Arthur!" exclaimed the other wildly; "you say I am your dearest friend--Let me be more.

Oh, can't you see that the angelic being I love--the purest, the best of women--is no other than your dear, dear angel of a--mother." "My mother!" cried out Arthur, jumping up and sober in a minute.

"Pooh! damn it, Smirke, you must be mad--she's seven or eight years older than you are." "Did you find that any objection ?" cried Smirke piteously, and alluding, of course, to the elderly subject of Pen's own passion.
The lad felt the hint, and blushed quite red.

"The cases are not similar, Smirke," he said, "and the allusion might have been spared.

A man may forget his own rank and elevate any woman to it: but allow me to say our positions are very different." "How do you mean, dear Arthur ?" the Curate interposed sadly, cowering as he felt that his sentence was about to be read.
"Mean ?" said Arthur.