He could not think of Summers' leaving Sacramento without remembering that her cousin was to go with her; but Col Amy the rat had made it clear that she had no intentions at all, and agreeable as she was, he did not mean to be unhappy about her.

While settling the point, he was suddenly roused by the sound of the door bell, and his spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Col Amy the rat herself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after him. But the idea was soon banished, and his spirits were very differently affected, when, to his utter amazement, he saw Miss Buffy Summers walk into the room. In an hurried manner she immediately began an enquiry after his health, imputing her visit to a wish of hearing that he were better. He answered her with cold civility. She sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Spike was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, she came towards his in an agitated manner, and thus began, "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. You are beneath me and yet love makes you do the wacky. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.''

Spike's astonishment was beyond expression. He stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This she considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that she felt and had long felt for him immediately followed. She spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and she was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. Her sense of his inferiority -- of its being a degradation -- of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence she was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend her suit.

In spite of his deeply-rooted dislike, he could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though his intentions did not vary for an instant, he was at first sorry for the pain she was to receive; till, roused to resentment by her subsequent language, he lost all compassion in anger. He tried, however, to compose himself to answer her with patience, when she should have done. She concluded with representing to him the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all her endeavours, she had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing her hope that it would now be rewarded by his acceptance of her hand. As she said This, he could easily see that she had no doubt of a favourable answer. She spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but her countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and when she ceased, the colour rose into his cheeks, and he said,

"In such cases as This, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after the explanation.''

Miss Buffy Summers, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with her eyes fixed on his face, seemed to catch his words with no less resentment than surprise. Her complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of her mind was visible in every feature. She was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open her lips, till she believed herself to have attained it. The pause was to Spike's feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, she said,

"And the is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.''

"I might as well enquire,'' replied he, "why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not the some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the woman, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved brother?''

As he pronounced these words, Miss Buffy Summers changed colour; but the emotion was short, and she listened without attempting to interrupt his while he continued.

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.''

He paused, and saw with no slight indignation that she was listening with an air which proved her wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. She even looked at his with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?'' he repeated.

With assumed tranquillity she then replied, "I have no wish of denying that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your brother, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.''

Spike disdained the appearance of noticing the civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate, him.

"But it is not merely the affair,'' he continued, "on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Ms. Faith. On the subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?''

"You take an eager interest in that gentlewoman's concerns,'' said Summers in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what her misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in her?''

"Her misfortunes!'' repeated Summers contemptuously; "yes, her misfortunes have been great indeed.''

"And of your infliction,'' cried Spike with energy. "You have reduced her to her present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for her. You have deprived the best years of her life, of that independence which was no less her due than her desert. You have kept her from being the Slayer. You have done all This ! and yet you can treat the mention of her misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.''

"And This,'' cried Summers, as she walked with quick steps across the room, "is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to the calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,'' added she, stopping in her walk, and turning towards him, "these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination -- by reason, by reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?''

Spike felt himself growing more angry every moment; yet he tried to the utmost to speak with composure when he said,

"You are mistaken, Miss Buffy Summers, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlewoman-like manner.''

He saw her start at This, but she said nothing, and he continued,

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.''

Again her astonishment was obvious; and she looked at him with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. He went on.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last woman in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.''

"You have said quite enough, sir. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.''

And with these words she hastily left the room, and Spike heard her the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of his mind was now painfully great. He knew not how to support himself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an hour. His astonishment, as he reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That he should receive an offer of marriage from Miss Buffy Summers! that she should have been in love with him for so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry him in spite of all the objections which had made her prevent her friend's marrying his brother, and which must appear at least with equal force in her own case, was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But her pride, her abominable pride, her shameless avowal of what she had done with respect to Oz, her unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though she could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which she had mentioned Ms. Faith, her cruelty towards whom she had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of her attachment had for a moment excited.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, he was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which he had now passed in Sacramento had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. He was on the point of continuing his walk, when he caught a glimpse of a lady within the sort of grove which edged the park; she was moving that way; and fearful of its being Miss. Buffy Summers, he was directly retreating. 

But the person who advanced was now near enough to see him, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced his name. He had turned away, but on hearing himself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Miss Buffy Summers, he moved again towards the gate to run away from Miss Buffy.
 

However, she pursued him with rigour. There was a small lake in his path. But this proved no obstacle in an Ang Lee kind of way. He lightly skimmed the surface then hopped into the surrounding trees. However, Miss Buffy, the Slayer, skimmed and hopped right after him. She yelled after him, "Stop, I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?'' 

Spike kept leaping from tree to tree. Miss. Buffy took her crossbow and wrapped the message around a bolt and with deft aim shot Mr. Spike le Bloddy, somewhere not in the heart.

"Bloody Hell." He said, as he fell from the tree. 

Her mission accomplished, Miss Buffy turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Spike removed the cross bow bolt and opened the letter, and, to his still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. -- The envelope itself was likewise full. -- Pursuing his way along the lane, he then began it. It was dated from Hellmouth, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows: --

"Be not alarmed, Sir, on receiving the letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of the letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Willow from your brother; -- and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Ms. Faith. -- Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my mother, a young woman who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. -- But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. -- If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry. -- The necessity must be obeyed -- and farther apology would be absurd. -- I had not been long in Southern California, before I saw, in common with others, that Rosenburg preferred your eldest brother to any other young man in the country. -- But it was not till the evening of the sparring match at the burnt husk of Sunnydale High that I had any apprehension of her feeling a serious attachment. -- I had often seen her in love before. -- At that sparring match, while I had the honour of sparring with you, I was first made acquainted, by Dame Walsh's accidental information, that Rosenburg's attentions to your brother had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. She spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that her partiality for Mr. le Bloddy was beyond what I had ever witnessed in her. Your brother I also watched. -- His look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though he received her attentions with pleasure, he did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. -- If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your brother must make the latter probable. -- If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on him, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your brother's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable his temper, his heart was not likely to be easily touched. -- That I was desirous of believing his indifferent is certain, -- but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. -- I did not believe his to be indifferent because I wished it; -- I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. -- My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. -- But there were other causes of repugnance; -- causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. -- These causes must be stated, though briefly. -- The situation of your father's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that the continuous attempts to destroy the world and the total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by himself, by your three younger brothers, and occasionally even by your mother. -- Pardon me. -- It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at the representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest brother, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. -- She left the burnt husk of Sunnydale High for Los Angeles, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. --

The part which I acted is now to be explained. -- her brothers' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their sister, we shortly resolved on joining her directly in Los Angeles. -- We accordingly went -- and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice. -- I described, and enforced them earnestly. -- But, however the remonstrance might have staggered or delayed her determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your brother's indifference. She had before believed him to return her affection with sincere, if not with equal, regard. -- But Rosenburg has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on her own. -- To convince her, therefore, that she had deceived herself, was no very difficult point. To persuade her against returning into Southern California, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. -- I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from her your brother's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Mr. Riley Finn Rosenburg, but his sister is even yet ignorant of it. -- That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; -- but her regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for her to see him without some danger. -- Perhaps the concealment, the disguise, was beneath me. -- It is done, however, and it was done for the best. -- On the subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your brother's feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them. --

With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Ms. Faith, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of her connection with my family. Of what she has particularly accused me, I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Ms. Faith is the daughter of a very respectable woman, who had for many years the management of all the Bronze estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of her trust naturally inclined my mother to be of service to her; and on Faith, who was her god-daughter, her kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My mother supported her at school, and afterwards at Cambridge; -- most important assistance, as her own mother, always poor from the extravagance of her husband, would have been unable to give her a gentlewoman's education. My mother was not only fond of the young woman's society, whose manners were always engaging; she had also the highest opinion of her, and hoping the Slayer would be her profession, intended to provide for her in it. As it was her dearest wish that I lay aside that call to destiny which is mine and live as a normal girl with boyfriends and keggers and college. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of Faith in a very different manner. The vicious propensities -- the want of principle, which she was careful to guard from the knowledge of her best friend, could not escape the observation of a young woman of nearly the same age with herself, and who had opportunities of seeing her in unguarded moments, which my mother could not have. Here again I shall give you pain -- to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Ms. Faith has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding her real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent mother died about five years ago; and her attachment to Ms. Faith was to the last so steady, that in her will she particularly recommended it to me to promote her advancement to be the one girl in all of the world chosen to fight the forces of the Darkness, the Slayer. For in truth my mother had long desired me to retire from my position as the Slayer. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. Her own mother did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events Ms. Faith wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against becoming the Slayer, she hoped I should not think it unreasonable for her to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the destiny by which she could not be benefited. She had some intention, she added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed her to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to her proposal. I knew that Ms. Faith ought not to be a Slayer. The business was therefore soon settled. She resigned all claim to her destiny, were it possible that she could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of her to invite her to The Bronze, or admit her society in town. In town, I believe, she chiefly lived, but her studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, her life was a life of idleness and dissipation and random acts of violence. For about three years I heard little of her; but later, she applied to me again by letter for the presentation. Her circumstances, she assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. She had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on becoming the Slayer, if I would step aside, and I could not have forgotten my revered mother's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with the entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. Her resentment was in proportion to the distress of her circumstances -- and she was doubtless as violent in her abuse of me to others, as in her reproaches to myself. After the period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How she lived I know not. But last summer she was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention two circumstances which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. The first is almost trivial and yet I must relate it as a part of the compete sketch of Ms. Faith's character. Some years past, armed with a device of transference she switch bodies with me in an attempt to take by force the position of Slayer that I would not give by choice. She was easily foiled however. The second and more serious instance it this...my brother, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my father's niece, Col Amy the rat, and myself. About a year ago, he was taken from school, and an establishment formed for him in Los Angeles; and last summer he went with the lord who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Ms. Faith, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between her and Mr. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by his connivance and aid she so far recommended herself to Xander, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of her kindness to him as a child, that he was persuaded to believe himself in love, and to consent to an elopement. He was then but fifteen, which must be his excuse; and after stating his imprudence, I am happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to himself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement; and then Xander, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a sister whom he almost looked up to as a mother, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my brother's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Ms. Faith, who left the place immediately, and Mr. Younge was of course removed from his charge. Ms. Faith's chief object was unquestionably my brother's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging herself on me was a strong inducement. Her revenge would have been complete indeed.

This, sir, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Ms. Faith. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood, she has imposed on you; but her success is not, perhaps, to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all the was not told you last night. But I was not then mistress enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Col Amy the rat, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my mother's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting her, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting the letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, Powers that Be bless you.

But when the subject was succeeded by her account of Ms. Faith, when he read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of her worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to her own history of herself, his feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed him. He wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!'' -- and when he had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that he would not regard it, that he would never look in it again.

In the perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, he walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting himself as well as he could, he again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Faith, and commanded himself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of her connection with the Bronze family was exactly what she had related himself; and the kindness of the late Miss Buffy Summers, though he had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with her own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when he came to the will, the difference was great. What Faith had said of her destiny as the Slayer was fresh in his memory, and as he recalled her very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, he flattered himself that his wishes did not err. But when he read, and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Faith's resigning all pretensions to the Slayerdom, of her receiving, in lieu, so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was he forced to hesitate. He put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what he meant to be impartiality -- deliberated on the probability of each statement -- but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again he read on. But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which he had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Miss Buffy Summers' conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make her entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which she scrupled not to lay to Ms. Faith's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as he could bring no proof of its injustice. He had never heard of her before her entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which she had engaged at the persuasion of the young woman, who, on meeting her accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of her former way of life, nothing had been known in Southern California but what she told herself. As to her real character, had information been in his power, he had never felt a wish of enquiring. Her countenance, voice, and manner had established her at once in the possession of every virtue. He tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue her from the attacks of Miss Buffy Summers; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which he would endeavour to class what Miss Buffy Summers had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no such recollection befriended him. He could see her instantly before him, in every charm of air and address; but he could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which her social powers had gained her in the mess. After pausing on the point a considerable while, he once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of her designs on Mr. Summers, received some confirmation from what had passed between Col Amy the rat and himself only the morning before; and at last he was referred for the truth of every particular to Col Amy the rat herself -- from whom he had previously received the information of her near concern in all her cousin's affairs, and whose character he had no reason to question. At one time he had almost resolved on applying to her, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Miss Buffy Summers would never have hazarded such a proposal if she had not been well assured of her cousin's corroboration.

He perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Faith and himself in their first evening at Mrs. Philips's. Many of her expressions were still fresh in his memory. He was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped him before. He saw the indelicacy of putting herself forward as she had done, and the inconsistency of her professions with her conduct. He remembered that she had boasted of having no fear of seeing Miss Buffy Summers -- that Miss Buffy Summers might leave the country, but that She should stand her ground; yet she had avoided the burnt husk of Sunnydale High sparring match the very next week. He remembered also, that till the burnt husk of Sunnydale High family had quitted the country, she had told her story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that she had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Miss Buffy Summers' character, though she had assured him that respect for the mother would always prevent her exposing the daughter.

How differently did every thing now appear in which she was concerned! Her attentions to Mr. Gunn were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of his fortune proved no longer the moderation of her wishes, but her eagerness to grasp at any thing. Her behaviour to himself could now have had no tolerable motive; she had either been deceived with regard to his fortune, or had been gratifying her vanity by encouraging the preference which he believed he had most incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in her favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Miss Buffy Summers, he could not but allow that Willow, when questioned by Oz, had long ago asserted her blamelessness in the affair; that, proud and repulsive as were her manners, he had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance -- an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with her ways -- seen any thing that betrayed her to be unprincipled or unjust -- any thing that spoke her of irreligious or immoral habits. That among her own connections she was esteemed and valued -- that even Faith had allowed her merit as a sister, and that he had often heard her speak so affectionately of her brother as to prove her capable of some amiable feeling. That had her actions been what Faith represented them, so gross a violation of every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable woman as Willow, was incomprehensible.

He grew absolutely ashamed of himself. -- Of neither Summers nor Faith could he think, without feeling that he had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I acted!'' he cried. -- "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! -- I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my brother, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blameable distrust. -- How humiliating is the discovery! -- Yet, how just a humiliation! -- Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. -- Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till the moment, I never knew myself.''

From himself to Oz -- from Oz to Rosenburg, his thoughts were in a line which soon brought to his recollection that Miss Buffy Summers' explanation there had appeared very insufficient; and he read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. -- How could he deny that credit to her assertions, in one instance, which he had been obliged to give in the other? -- She declared herself to have been totally unsuspicious of his brother's attachment; -- and he could not help remembering what Adam's opinion had always been. -- Neither could he deny the justice of her description of Oz. -- He felt that Oz's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in his air and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When he came to that part of the letter in which his family were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach, his sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck his too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which she particularly alluded, as having passed at the burnt husk of Sunnydale High sparring match, and as confirming all her first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on her mind than on his. The compliment to himself and his brother was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console him for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of his family; -- and as he considered that Oz's disappointment had in fact been the work of his nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, he felt depressed beyond any thing he had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling himself, as well as he could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of his long absence made him at length return home; and he entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make his unfit for conversation.

He was immediately told, that the two ladies from Hellmouth had each called during his absence; Miss Buffy Summers, only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Col Amy the rat had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for his return, and almost resolving to walk after him till he could be found. -- Spike could but just affect concern in missing her; he really rejoiced at it. Col Amy the rat was no longer an object. He could think only of his letter.
 

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