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said Edward; "a doctrine of practical philosophy which I hope Miss Arundel has been practising. I doubt the polite disclaimer of weariness which she has smiled, and is about to say."

He was quite wrong; Emily would have listened to him with delight, even if he had spoken Sanscrit. When have the words of a loved one dropped other than honey? "That woman's heart is not mine," said a modern philosopher; "she yawned while I demonstrated to her the 48th problem in Euclid." This, we own, was expecting a great deal; but not more than love has a right to do. You do not love if there is not some nameless fascination in the lightest act. What would be absurd, ridiculous, nay disagreeable, in another, has in the beloved a fairy spell. Love's is the true alchemy, turning what it touches to gold. The most remarkable instance of its devotion I remember was in a village clerk. During the life of his first wife he regularly dined every Sunday at the Squire's; she died, and he married again. After that, he always, on the Sunday, in spite of the united attractions of beef, ale, and pudding, dined at home—"His wife," he said, "was so lonely."