Let me accompany you.' The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.
The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour.

Mr.Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.
'Miss Wardle!' said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant's rattle.
'Miss Wardle,' said Mr.Tupman, 'you are an angel.' 'Mr.Tupman!' exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.
'Nay,' said the eloquent Pickwickian--'I know it but too well.' 'All women are angels, they say,' murmured the lady playfully.
'Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you ?' replied Mr.Tupman.

'Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you?
Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty?
Where else could I seek to--Oh!' Here Mr.Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head.

'Men are such deceivers,' she softly whispered.
'They are, they are,' ejaculated Mr.Tupman; 'but not all men.