`You thought wrong then; I am not going to marry either one or the other--that I know of.'

`Then I think you'd better let them alone.'

`Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?'

He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered,--

`No, I think not.'

`Then you had better let her alone.'

She won't let me alone--he might have said; but he only looked silly and said nothing for the space of half a minute, and then made another attempt to turn the conversation; and, this time, I let it pass; for he had borne enough: another word on the subject would have been like the last atom that breaks the camel's back.

I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the teapot and muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scolded me a little, readily admitted my excuses; and when I complained of the flavour of the overdrawn tea, she poured the remainder into the slop-basin, and bade Rose put some fresh into the pot and reboil the kettle, which offices were performed with great commotion and certain remarkable comments:--

`Well!--if it had been me now, I should have had no tea at all--If it had been Fergus, even, he would have had to put up with such as there was, and been told to be thankful, for it was far too good for him; but yoU--we can't do too much for you--It's always so--if there's anything particularly rice at table, mamma winks and nods at me to abstain from it, and if I don't attend to that, she whispers, "Don't eat so much of that, Rose, Gilbert will like it for his supper"--I'm nothing at all--in the parlour, it's "Come, Rose, put away your things, and let's have the room nice and tidy against they come in; and keep up a good fire; Gilbert likes a cheerful fire." In the kitchen--"Make that pie a large one, Rose, I dare say the boys'll be hungry;-- and don't put so much pepper in, they'll not like it I'm sure"--or, "Rose, don't put so many spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it plain,"--or, "Mind you put plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus likes plenty." If I say, "Well, mamma, I don't," I'm told I ought not to think of myself--"You know, Rose, in all household matters, we have only two things to consider, first, what's proper to be done, and secondly, what's most agreeable to the gentlemen of the house--anything will do for the ladies."'

`And very good doctrine too,' said my mother. `Gilbert so, I'm sure.'

`Very convenient doctrine, for us at all events,' said I; `but if you would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you do--as for Rose, I have no doubt she'll take care of herself; and whenever she does make a sacrifice or perform a remarkable act of devotedness, she'll take good care to let me know the extent of it. But for you, I might sink into the grossest condition of self-indulgence and carelessness about the wants of others, from the mere habit of being constantly cared for myself, and having all my wants anticipated or immediately supplied, while left in total ignorance of what is done for me,--if Rose did not enlighten me now and then; and I should receive all your kindness as a matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.'

`Ah! and you never will know, Gilbert, till you're married. Then, when you've got some trifling, self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward, careless of everything but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or some misguided, obstinate woman like Mrs Graham, ignorant of her principal duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to know--then, you'll find the difference.'

`It will do me good, mother; I was not sent into the world merely to exercise the good capacities and good feelings of others--was I?--but to exert my own towards them; and when I marry, I shall expect to