"Nay," said the eloquent Pickwickian—"I know it but too well."
"All women are angels, they say," murmured the lady, playfully.
"Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you?" replied Mr. Tupman.?" replied Mr. Tupman. "Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to———Oh!" Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head. "Men are such deceivers," she softly whispered.
"They are, they are," ejaculated Mr. Tupman; "but not all men. There lives at least one being who can never change—one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness—who lives but in your eyes—who breathes but in your smiles—who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you."
"Could such an individual be found," said the lady———
"But he can be found," said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing.
"He is found. He is here, Miss Wardle."
And ere the lady was aware of his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.
"Mr. Tupman, rise," said Rachael.
"Never!" was the valorous reply. "Oh, Rachael!"—He seized her passive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips.—" Oh, Rachael! say you love me."
"Mr. Tupman," said the spinster aunt, with averted head—"I can hardly speak the words; but—but—you are not wholly indifferent to me."
Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He jumped
