inevitable. I taxed myself to the utmost to
discover some topic interesting to papa—
money matters, politics; but no, papa would
harp on art, and the beggarly remuneration
of second-rate painters. Poor Ernest! I saw,
for my sake, how manfully he struggled to
govern his temper. How truly I felt for him!
And then, most provokingly, John informed
me that the Bennett girls had called, and
must see me, if it were only for a minute,
about an election to the Orphan Asylum of a
little girl in whom I was much interested.
I was forced with sad forebodings to leave
the room. Alas! my five minutes' absence
produced a sad result. Ernest, sorely
provoked, had answered papa; they had
quarrelled, and bitter things had been said on
both sides. Papa, I found, had left the room,
and there was Ernest pale and trembling
—his angry feeling of resentment, long
suppressed, had complete mastery of him. I
urged every excuse I could think of for papa's
conduct, but in vain.

In my despair I cried, "Oh, Ernest, all
this will kill me."

"Better die than lead the life I lead," he
replied. "Curses on this slow dragging
justice! Better be a beggar at once, than
tremble at the quibbling chances of law."

Then I found it was a law-suit that had
been troubling him all this while, and I
complained that he had not before confided to me
a subject which was trying him so sadly, but
he declared I had sorrow and worry enough
at home for my share. At length he talked
more calmly, his old countenance came back
again, and I left him to seek papa.

Clara, I will let all that conversation with
papa pass untold; all I could say, all my
entreaties had no weight, and I returned
with a heavy heart to Ernest, to tell him he
must leave the house—that I would write to
him—that I trusted time would lull papa's
resentment and anger.

To my surprise I found a stranger in the
room with Ernest. Ernest introduced me to
this gentleman, it was his solicitor and old
friend, Mr. Pearson. He had started off from
town post-haste, learning where Ernest was,
to tell him that judgment had just been given
in his cause—favourable judgment, which
made Ernest immensely rich. All this Mr.
Pearson told me himself in a very matter-of-fact
manner, for he would scarcely suffer
Ernest to speak—he was so anxious that
Ernest should not over-excite himself with
the good news. I recollect thinking it odd
that Mr. Pearson, being an old friend, did
not show greater elation at the success of the
suit. Ernest thought so too, and he
expressed some surprise on the point, but Mr.
Pearson assured Ernest that he felt truly
delighted in congratulating him on his good
fortune: he had come from town for that
purpose at some inconvenience: he felt also
not a little proud at the success which had
attended his own professional efforts—
however, he had known so many unfortunate
circumstances arising from the shock
occasioned by sudden fortune, that he always
made it a rule to exercise a strong restraint
upon his feelings—to keep himself perfectly
calm, and never to allow the mind to lose its
due balance. Indeed, we had some ado to
get Mr. Pearson into the adjoining library on
the plea of luncheon (for of course Ernest
wanted to talk to me alone) so urgent was
he in his recommendations to Ernest to
restrain his exultation.

Mr. Pearson's advice appeared very
seasonable and judicious; Ernest's elation of
spirits almost terrified me; I did my best to
calm him. It was a difficult task—it seemed
as if a new nature had been created in him—
a nature which had its birth in the morning's
quarrel with papa. Or rather, perhaps, that
long suppression of strong feeling which he
had been forced to exercise when he was too
poor to resent insult and injustice, had been
suddenly flung away, and natural passion had
its sway. He talked so wildly of the power
of gold, so scornfully of the world, that my
heart ached to hear him. He recalled many
an old insult cast upon him—how people
who had wronged him would cringe now,
people who had dealt very hardly with him
in his long, up-struggling artist career; and
then it seemed to delight him to tell me he
would crowd every fine thing round me that
money could procure—all this told with his
rich artist fancy in fluent words.

I replied that I had loved him dearly
without riches, and that no gold could
increase my love.

"True, true," he answered, clasping me
tightly; " but gold is the world's blessing on
our union—nothing on earth can divide us
now."

Mr. Pearson then came in from the library,
and said that papa wished to see me directly.

I recollected that Mr. Pearson and papa
were acquainted in business. I went into
the library with a light heart. "Surely," I
thought, "Mr. Pearson has told papa of
Ernest's good fortune." Papa was sitting in
his easy chair: he seemed buried in thought.

"Dear papa," I cried, " you have heard the
good news." He did not appear to listen to
me. I knelt beside him, and looked into his
face. " You will forgive all, and consent to
our marriage now ? " I said.

"Ay," he replied, bitterly, without raising
his head, "we are equals now, Ernest and
myself."

"Both rich!" I exclaimed.

"Beggars, child!" was his reply

I was completely mystified: with much
difficulty I drew from papa in painful words
that he was ruined. It appeared that Mr.
Pearson had mentioned incidentally, in
conversation, while they were talking of city
matters, that Westby's bank had most
unexpectedly stopped payment that morning at
eleven o'clock.