As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning one evening from a long walk, and being very tired, they sat down on a bank facing the Towy to rest themselves, and watch the setting sun sink behind the undulating mountains that almost surrounded them. They were, for some minutes, so absorbed in the scene before them, that neither spoke; at last Beatrice exclaimed:—
"What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and Mr. Barclay never took it into your heads to fall in love with each other; you would make such a capital clergyman's wife."
"Beatrice!" said Ethelind, "why talk thus; do you mean to say that you have been insensible to his attachment to you?"
"I do not mean to say that," replied she, "but I can assure you, that if there is such a feeling, it is only on his side."
"And yet, you have not only received, but met his attentions with such evident pleasure, and given him such decided encouragement."
"Now, Ethy, how could I resist a flirtation with such an interesting character?"
"Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the pain you might inflict by leading him to suppose his affection was reciprocated."
"Never, my consciencious little Ethelind, he is too poor, nay, too good, for me to think seriously of becoming his wife."
"Oh, Beatrice! I thought you had a more noble heart than to trifle with the affections of such a man, particularly now there is a chance of recovering your property; you might be so happy, and make him so too."
"And do, you think, if I do recover it, I should throw myself away on a poor curate, and that I should like to lead such a quiet hum–drum life. No, my dear girl, I was never made to appreciate such goodness or imitate it either."