which is given away to others for want of something of your own to bestow it on? I suspect there is. Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility makes tyranny; weak concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion especially teaches renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere are found so many grasping tyrants as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. Each human being has his share of rights. I suspect it would conduce to the happiness and welfare of all if each knew his allotment, and held to it as tenaciously as the martyr to his creed. Queer thoughts, these, that surge in my mind. Are they right thoughts? I am not certain.

‘Well, life is short at the best; seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh, and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne—the grave, the little chink in the surface of this great globe, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem, and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body; the soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christian’s triple Godhead—the Sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul’s real hereafter who shall guess?’

Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone had departed, and now the study bell rang for prayers.

The next day Caroline had to spend altogether alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend Dr. Boultby, Vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in the same strain, looking forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, as she passed in and out of the room occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived that her young mistress sat very still. She was always in the same place, always bent industriously over a piece of work. She did not lift her head to speak to Fanny, as her custom was, and when the latter remarked that the day was fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only said: ‘It is cold.’

‘You are very diligent at that sewing, Miss Caroline,’ continued the girl, approaching her little table.

‘I am tired of it, Fanny.’

‘Then why do you go on with it? Put it down. Read, or do something to amuse you.’

‘It is solitary in this house, Fanny. Don’t you think so?’

‘I don’t find it so, miss. Me and Eliza are company for one another, but you are quite too still; you should visit more. Now, be persuaded; go upstairs and dress yourself smart, and go and take tea, in a friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either of those ladies would be delighted to see you.’

‘But their houses are dismal; they are both old maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy race.’

‘Not they, miss; they can’t be unhappy; they take such care of themselves. They are all selfish.’

‘Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny; she is always doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her stepmother, as long as the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, without brother or sister, or anyone to care for her, how charitable she is to the poor, as far as her means permit! Still, nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure in going to see her; and how gentlemen always sneer at her!’

‘They shouldn’t, miss; I believe she is a good woman; but gentlemen think only of ladies’ looks.’

‘I’ll go and see her,’ exclaimed Caroline, starting up; ‘and if she asks me to stay to tea, I’ll stay. How wrong it is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and young, and merry! And I will certainly call to see Miss Mann, too; she may not be amiable, but what has made her unamiable? What has life been to her?’