A gentleman in the prime of life stood with his elbow on the broad mantel-piece, and made himself agreeable to a young lady, seated a little way off, playing at work.

To the ear he was only conversing, but his eyes dwelt on her with loving admiration all the time. Her posture was favorable to this furtive inspection, for she leaned her fair head over her work with a pretty, modest, demure air, that seemed to say, “I suspect I am being admired: I will not look to see: I might have to check it.”

The gentleman's features were ordinary, except his brow—that had power in it—but he had the beauty of color; his sunburned features glowed with health, and his eye was bright. On the whole, rather good-looking when he smiled, but ugly when he frowned; for his frown was a scowl, and betrayed a remarkable power of hating.

Miss Arabella Bruce was a beauty. She had glorious masses of dark red hair, and a dazzling white neck to set it off; large, dove-like eyes, and a blooming oval face, which would have been classical if her lips had been thin and finely chiseled; but here came in her Anglo-Saxon breed, and spared society a Minerva by giving her two full and rosy lips. They made a smallish mouth at rest, but parted ever so wide when they smiled, and ravished the beholder with long, even rows of dazzling white teeth.

Her figure was tall and rather slim, but not at all commanding. There are people whose very bodies express character; and this tall, supple, graceful frame of Bella Bruce breathed womanly subservience; so did her gestures. She would take up or put down her own scissors half timidly, and look around before threading her needle, as if to see whether any soul objected. Her favorite word was “May I?” with a stress on the “May,” and she used it where most girls would say “I will,” or nothing, and do it.

Mr. Richard Bassett was in love with her, and also conscious that her fifteen thousand pounds would be a fine addition to his present income, which was small, though his distant expectations were great. As he had known her but one month, and she seemed rather amiable than inflammable, he had the prudence to proceed by degrees; and that is why, though his eyes gloated on her, he merely regaled her with the gossip of the day, not worth recording here. But when he had actually taken his hat to go, Bella Bruce put him a question that had been on her mind the whole time, for which reason she had reserved it to the very last moment.

“Is Sir Charles Bassett in town?” said she, mighty carelessly, but bending a little lower over her embroidery.

“Don't know,” said Richard Bassett, with such a sudden brevity and asperity that Miss Bruce looked up and opened her lovely eyes. Mr. Richard Bassett replied to this mute inquiry, “We don't speak.” Then, after a pause, “He has robbed me of my inheritance.”

“Oh, Mr. Bassett!”

“Yes, Miss Bruce, the Bassett and Huntercombe estates were mine by right of birth. My father was the eldest son, and they were entailed on him. But Sir Charles's father persuaded my old, doting grandfather to cut off the entail, and settle the estates on him and his heirs; and so they robbed me of every acre they could. Luckily my little estate of Highmore was settled on my mother and her issue too tight for the villains to undo.”

These harsh expressions, applied to his own kin, and the abruptness and heat they were uttered with, surprised and repelled his gentle listener. She shrank a little away from him. He observed it. She replied not to his words, but to her own thought:

“But, after all, it does seem hard.” She added, with a little fervor, “But it wasn't poor Sir Charles's doing, after all.”

“He is content to reap the benefit,” said Richard Bassett, sternly.

Then, finding he was making a sorry impression, he tried to get away from the subject. I say tried, for till a man can double like a hare he will never get away from his hobby. “Excuse me,” said he; “I ought never to speak about it. Let us talk of something else. You cannot enter into my feelings; it makes my blood boil. Oh, Miss Bruce! you can't conceive what a disinherited man feels—and I live at the very door: his old trees, that ought to be mine, fling their shadows over my little flower beds; the sixty chimneys of Huntercombe Hall look down on my cottage; his acres of lawn run up to my little garden, and nothing but a ha-ha between us.”

“It is hard,” said Miss Bruce, composedly; not that she entered into a hardship of this vulgar sort, but it was her nature to soothe and please people.

“Hard!” cried Richard Bassett, encouraged by even this faint sympathy; “it would be unendurable but for one thing—I shall have my own some day.”

“I am glad of that,” said the lady; “but how?”

“By outliving the wrongful heir.”

Miss Bruce turned pale. She had little experience of men's passions. “Oh, Mr. Bassett!” said she—and there was something pure and holy in the look of sorrow and alarm she cast on the presumptuous speaker—“pray do not cherish such thoughts. They will do you harm. And remember life and death are not in our hands. Besides—”

“Well?”'

“Sir Charles might—”

“Well?”

“Might he not—marry—and have children?” This with more hesitation and a deeper blush than appeared absolutely necessary.

“Oh, there's no fear of that. Property ill-gotten never descends. Charles is a worn-out rake. He was fast at Eton—fast at Oxford—fast in London. Why, he looks ten years older than I, and he is three years younger. He had a fit two years ago. Besides, he is not a marrying man. Bassett and Huntercombe will be mine. And oh! Miss Bruce, if ever they are mine—”

“Sir Charles Bassett!” trumpeted a servant at the door; and then waited, prudently, to know whether his young lady, whom he had caught blushing so red with one gentleman, would be at home to another.

“Wait a moment,” said Miss Bruce to him. Then, discreetly ignoring what Bassett had said last, and lowering her voice almost to a whisper, she said, hurriedly: “You should not blame him for the faults of others. There—I have not been long acquainted with either, and am little entitled to inter—But it is such a pity you are not friends. He is very good, I assure you, and very nice. Let me reconcile you two. May I?”

This well-meant petition was uttered very sweetly; and, indeed—if I may be permitted—in a way to dissolve a bear.

But this was not a bear, nor anything else that is placable; it was a man with a hobby grievance; so he replied in character:

“That is impossible so long as he keeps me out of my own.” He had the grace, however, to add, half sullenly, “Excuse me; I feel I have been too vehement.”

Miss Bruce, thus repelled, answered, rather coldly:

“Oh, never mind that; it was very natural.—I am at home, then,” said she to the servant.

Mr. Bassett took the hint, but turned at the door, and said, with no little agitation, “I was not aware he visits you. One word—don't let his ill-gotten acres make you quite forget the disinherited one.” And so he left her, with an imploring look.

She felt red with all this, so she slipped out at another door, to cool her cheeks and imprison a stray curl for Sir Charles.

He strolled into the empty room, with the easy, languid air of fashion. His features were well cut, and had some nobility; but his sickly complexion and the lines under his eyes told a tale of dissipation. He appeared ten years older than he was, and thoroughly blase.

Yet when Miss Bruce entered the room with a smile and a little blush, he brightened up and looked handsome, and greeted her with momentary warmth.

After the usual inquiries she asked him if he had met any body.

“Where?”

“Here; just now.”

“No.”

“What, nobody at all?”

“Only my sulky cousin; I don't call him anybody,” drawled Sir Charles, who was now relapsing into his normal condition of semi-apathy.

“Oh,” said Miss Bruce gayly, “you must expect him to be a little cross. It is not so very nice to be disinherited, let me tell you.”

“And who has disinherited the fellow?”

“I forget; but you disinherited him among you. Never mind; it can't be helped now. When did you come back to town? I didn't see you at Lady d'Arcy's ball, did I?”

“You did not, unfortunately for me; but you would if I had known you were to be there. But about Richard: he may tell you what he likes, but he was not disinherited; he was bought out. The fact is, his father was uncommonly fast. My grandfather paid his debts again and again; but at last the old gentleman found he was dealing with the Jews for his reversion. Then there was an awful row. It ended in my grandfather outbidding the Jews. He bought the reversion of his estate from his own son for a large sum of money (he had to raise it by mortgages); then they cut off the entail between them, and he entailed the mortgaged estate on his other son, and his grandson (that was me), and on my heir-at-law. Richard's father squandered his thirty thousand pounds before he died; my father husbanded the estates, got into Parliament, and they put a tail to his name.”

Sir Charles delivered this version of the facts with a languid composure that contrasted deliciously with Richard's heat in telling the story his way (to be sure, Sir Charles had got Huntercombe and Bassett, and it is easier to be philosophical on the right side of the boundary hedge), and wound up with a sort of corollary: “Dick Bassett suffers by his father's vices, and I profit by mine's virtues. Where's the injustice?”

“Nowhere, and the sooner you are reconciled the better.”

Sir Charles demurred. “Oh, I don't want to quarrel with the fellow: but he is a regular thorn in my side, with his little trumpery estate, all in broken patches. He shoots my pheasants in the unfairest way.” Here the landed proprietor showed real irritation, but only for a moment. He concluded calmly, “The fact is, he is not quite a gentleman. Fancy his coming and whining to you about our family affairs, and then telling you a falsehood!”

“No, no; he did not mean. It was his way of looking at things. You can afford to forgive him.”

“Yes, but not if he sets you against me.”

“But he cannot do that. The more any one was to speak against you, the more I—of course.”

This admission fired Sir Charles; he drew nearer, and, thanks to his cousin's interference, spoke the language of love more warmly and directly than he had ever done before.

The lady blushed, and defended herself feebly. Sir Charles grew warmer, and at last elicited from her a timid but tender avowal, that made him supremely happy.

When he left her this brief ecstasy was succeeded by regrets on account of the years he had wasted in follies and intrigues.

He smoked five cigars, and pondered the difference between the pure creature who now honored him with her virgin affections and beauties of a different character who had played their parts in his luxurious life.

After profound deliberation he sent for his solicitor. They lighted the inevitable cigars, and the following observations struggled feebly out along with the smoke.

“Mr. Oldfield, I'm going to be married.”

“Glad to hear it, Sir Charles.” (Vision of settlements.) “It is a high time you were.” (Puff-puff.)

“Want your advice and assistance first.”

“Certainly.”

“Must put down my pony-carriage now, you know.”

“A very proper retrenchment; but you can do that without my assistance.”

“There would be sure to be a row if I did. I dare say there will be as it is. At any rate, I want to do the thing like a gentleman.”

“Send 'em to Tattersall's.” (Puff.)

“And the girl that drives them in the park, and draws all the duchesses and countesses at her tail—am I to send her to Tattersall's?” (Puff.)

“Oh, it is her you want to put down, then?”

“Why, of course.”