specimen of the elderly gentleman; I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, either in my own house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now speak the truth.’

‘He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not, precisely as he would have brought up his own daughter, if he had had one, and that is kindness; but I am not fond of him; I would rather be out of his presence than in it.’

‘Strange! when he has the art of making himself so agreeable.’

‘Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts away his cane and shovel-hat in the Rectory-hall, so he locks his liveliness in his book-case and study-desk: the knitted brow and brief word for the fireside; the smile, the jest, the witty sally, for society.’

‘Is he tyrannical?’

‘Not in the least; he is neither tyrannical nor hypocritical; he is simply a man who is rather liberal than good-natured, rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously equitable than truly just—if you can understand such superfine distinctions?’

‘Oh! yes; good-nature implies indulgence, which he has not; geniality, warmth of heart, which he does not own; and genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can well conceive, my bronzed old friend is quite innocent.’

‘I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and unfamiliar to them, in order to seem agreeable or estimable in their eyes, and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection for those they see every day.’

‘I don’t know; I can’t clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different from us—fickle soon petrifying, unsympathizing—I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse than useless, since it was inevitably in its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away—to remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure.’

‘But you could not if you were married.’

‘No, I could not—there it is. I could never be my own-mistress more. A terrible thought—it suffocates me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore—an inevitable burden—a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous, I can comfortably fold my independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married that could not be.’

‘I wonder we don’t all make up our minds to remain single,’ said Caroline; ‘we should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married, he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any rate, as doing a foolish thing.’

‘But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle—surely not; I hope not.’

She paused and mused.

‘I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we are married,’ suggested Caroline.

‘I suppose so; and this exception we believe to be of sterling materials; we fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that will never harden against us; we read in his eyes that faithful feeling—affection. I don’t think we should trust to what they