ago aspired to the favour of your hand, I am sanguine as to that.’

Would he never, never come?

How long was I to bear this? How long could I bear it? ‘Oh me, oh me!’ exclaimed the wretched Emily, in a tone that might have touched the hardest heart, I should have thought; but there was no relenting in Rosa Dartle’s smile. ‘What, what, shall I do!’

‘Do?’ returned the other. ‘Live happy in your own reflections! Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth’s tenderness — he would have made you his serving-man’s wife, would he not?

— -or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creature who would have taken