s? ,  portion of your mind— sentiments—tastes?”

    “Save till ted. they will keep.”

    “You knoake, then?”

    “I do.”

    a bitter or a sad smile, but one ified.

    “And wion?”

    “I o my o-morro week.”

    “Very .”

    anding still,  me. he shook his head.

    “ do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?” I asked.

    “You  stay at Morton long: no, no!”

    “ is your reason for saying so?”

    “I read it in your eye; it is not of t description enor in life.”

    “I am not ambitious.”

    arted at tious.” ed, “No.  made you tion? ious? I kno  out?”

    “I was speaking of myself.”

    “ell, if you are not ambitious, you are—” he paused.

    “?”

    “I o say, impassioned: but perood t ions and sympat poent to pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your onous labour ent,” o live  in ains—my nature, t God gave me, contravened; my faculties, o myself. I, ment , and justified tion even of er in God’s service—I, er, almost rave in my restlessness. ell, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.”

    t more of  still he puzzled me.

    Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as tried to appear as usual; bat to struggle against  could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated t t parting from any t kno . Joing for years: it miging for life.

    “o ural affection and feelings more potent still. St. Jo, Jane; but als. You le, yet in some t of it is, my conscience o dissuade ainly,