“I am sure that’s very natural!” cried Ada, quite delighted. “The very thing we both said yesterday, Esther!”

“Then,” pursued Richard, “it’s monotonous, and to-day is too like yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to- day.”

“But I am afraid,” said I, “this is an objection to all kinds of application — to life itself, except under some very uncommon circumstances.”

“Do you think so?” returned Richard, still considering. “Perhaps! Ha! Why, then, you know,” he added, suddenly becoming gay again, “we travel outside a circle, to what I said just now. It’ll do as well as anything else. O, it’s all right enough! Let us talk about something else.”

But, even Ada, with her loving face — and if it had seemed innocent and trusting, when I first saw it in that memorable November fog, how much more did it seem now, when I knew her innocent and trusting heart — even Ada shook her head at this, and looked serious. So I thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard, that if he were sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never meant to be careless of Ada; and that it was a part of his affectionate consideration for her, not to slight the importance of a step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost grave.

“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing! I have thought of that, several times; and have been quite angry with myself for meaning to be so much in earnest, and — somehow — not exactly being so. I don’t know how it is; I seem to want something or other to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don’t settle down to constancy in other things. It’s such uphill work, and it takes such a time!” said Richard, with an air of vexation.

“That may be,” I suggested, “because you don’t like what you have chosen.”

“Poor fellow!” said Ada. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it!”

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried again; but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder, and while he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!

“You see, my precious girl,” said Richard, passing her golden curls through and through his hand, “I was a little hasty, perhaps; or I misunderstood my own inclinations, perhaps. They don’t seem to lie in that direction. I couldn’t tell, till I tried. Now the question is, whether it’s worth while to undo all that has been done. It seems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.”

“My dear Richard,” said I, “how can you say about nothing particular?”

“I don’t mean absolutely that,” he returned. “I mean that it may be nothing particular because I may never want it.”

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly worth while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone. I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial pursuit.

“There, my dear Mrs Shipton,” said Richard, “you touch me home. Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.”

“The law!” repeated Ada, as if she were afraid of the name.

“If I went into Kenge’s office,” said Richard, “and if I were placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the — hum! — the forbidden ground — and should be able to study it, and master it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected, and was being properly conducted. I should be able to look after Ada’s interests, and my own interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.”