The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth

was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine,

and creeping plants - one of those sweet retreats which humane men

erect for the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one

corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr Tupman detained her,

and drew her to a seat beside him.

'Miss Wardle!' said he. The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles

which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot

shook like an infant's rattle.

'Miss Wardle,' said Mr Tupman, 'you are an angel.'

'Mr Tupman!' exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot

itself.

'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. '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.

The Pickwick Papers