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'Preposterous!" exclaimed Mr. Lee.

'My dear Godfrey," said good uncle John, in a perfectly audible whisper, and with a wink so violent and prolonged, that it could not fail to attract attention, "don't irritate him, there's a good fellow. never can stand contradiction."

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"I really wish, John," retorted his brother "that you would have the goodness to abstain from interference. I assure you, you only make yourself ridiculous."

Uncle John became exceedingly red, and would probably have made some desperately testy answer, had not Frederick, to whom a scene of this kind was especially painful, interposed, anxious to lead the conversation gently away from the subject of dispute. "And you really think, Godfrey," said he, "that the number of men capable of forming a correct judgment is comparatively small ?"

"Well," said Godfrey, "I think experience leads one to that notion: just think over all your acquain- | tance; how many are there to whom you would go for counsel in a difficulty, or whose opinion you could take upon trust without scrupulously examining the matter yourself? I dont know whether a sound judgment is the highest of all intellectual gifts, but I am sure it is the rarest."

"You are perhaps an example of the truth of your own observation," remarked uncle Alexander, with that serviceable smile which enables a man to say the bitterest things possible under cover of a jest.

Godfrey flushed crimson, and the light in his eye was so sudden and so fierce, that his mother involuntarily and timidly laid her hand on his arm as if to restrain him. He took no notice of the action, but remained perfectly silent. Ida, who had been pondering on his last words so deeply that she had not noticed the inuendo which followed them, now spoke.

"I always fancied," said she, "that judgment was a very prosaic matter-of-fact sort of thing, and had nothing to do with intellect."

Godfrey smiled. “Judgment of prudence or expediency," answered he. "Very true. But you do not know how much I comprehend in those words, 'a sound judgment.' What is it but clearly and fully to see the truth? and the eyes which can see truth must surely be very calm and pure. There must be that delicate apparatus of instincts which we call tact; there must be charity, unselfishness, and that repose and elevation of mind which are begotten by communion with high and holy themes. For truth, in whatever garb or class it is found, is and must be always divine; and depend upon it that the eyes which have been exercised only upon the clods of earth will be bewildered and blinded when they are uplifted to the contemplation of the stars."

"this is quite a new tone. I thought you professed utter contempt for common sense, and considered genius the only guide; that is to say, the only thing of any consequence. You change so perpetually in your' ideas, that I assure you it is quite impossible for me to understand you."

Godfrey looked as if he had no doubt of the fact, whatever he might think about the cause; and Alexander said aside to Ida, "How strange, is it not? to talk of either genius or common sense as the guide of life! They are both of the head, and it is the voice of the heart to which we ought to listen.”

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'Very true, Alex!" cried uncle John, clapping his nephew encouragingly on the back; "the heart for ever, my boy! Talk of Godfrey's changing! when was there ever such a change known, as to hear that sentiment from you? Why, if you go on in this way, I do believe we shall see you like your cousins after all!"

The compliment was so very equivocal, that it could scarcely be expected to gratify Alexander, who indeed looked at his uncle as if he might have been induced to inflict bodily injury upon him for a very small bribe. The unconscious offender, however, proceeded in a tone of increased cheerfulness. (Sometimes one could not help wondering where his cheerfulness would end, it was so perpetually taking fresh starts, and accelerating its pace each time.)

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"How this reminds me," said he, nodding to Ida, "of a conversation in which your dear father took part, some fourteen years ago. He was saying how much better imagination was than reason; and he compared them to two angels, one of which was always helping you forward, and the other pushing you back. let me see-I am not quite sure about that, because I don't suppose it would be exactly in keeping for an angel to push you back. Perhaps it was a devil. However I know he made it into a very beautiful allegory, and good old Mr. Becket said he would have been much wiser if he hadn't said anything about it. But you see, my quarrel with judgment, which I suppose is just the same thing as reason, is, that it always makes you see everything that is wrong."

"Never mind the definition," exclaimed Godfrey, "but tell us what you mean. How does it make you see everything that is wrong ?"

"Well, but doesn't it now?" was uncle John's expressive rejoinder.

"Don't ask me," said Godfrey, "I know nothing about it. The reason why I am such an admirer of judgment is just because I have got so little of it myself."

"Well, but doesn't it always show you all kinds of faults and evils ?" asked uncle John; "for example, a poor pale woman with a sickly baby begs of me, and I want to give her half-a-crown. Well, what does "Is that blank verse?" asked uncle Alexander judgment say? Take care what you're about,' says grimly. judgment, that baby isn't her own, and might get "It can't be," said uncle John, "because I under- work if it liked, and support its whole family in stood it." respectability and comfort, on the railroad, or in the "Well, but really, my dear Godfrey," said Melissa, mines, or any where else.' That is to say, the woman

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or her husband might. And then I don't give the half-crown."

66 Don't you " said Ida, "Oh! I am very sure you do. Because, dear uncle John, you must know, I think, that isn't at all what a sound judgment would say. I think it would say, 'Give by all means; better be deceived a hundred times, than let one real case of misery remain unrelieved."

"That's not the sort of thing that is generally called judgment, my darling," said uncle John.

"Oh! I don't care at all about what it is generally called," rejoined Ida; "no more does Godfrey, I am sure, because you know he says the majority are always in the wrong."

"And then about people," pursued uncle John, "judgment always tells you their faults. Now I don't want to know my friends' faults, nor to talk about them, nor to hear them talked about."

"But nobody ever does talk about a friend's faults," said Ida.

"Don't they though ?" replied uncle John, "uncommonly few friends most men must have then!" "Besides," said Godfrey, "you are generally forced against your will both to hear them discussed and to discuss them. It is strange how, whenever a man forms a real friendship, those who are about him seem to make it a point of conscience to let no defect in the friend escape notice. All that is said may be very true, but the strange thing is, that it should be said. It would seem more natural to think within yourself, 'Here I will be silent, for, true as this is, it may give pain to speak of it!' But on the contrary, there is a perpetual blockade laid to the unlucky friendship, and every foible or failing that it can be induced to admit, is considered a sort of triumph. I always feel extra perverse on such occasions; and I would maintain that a fool was a first-rate genius, if I loved him, and people were always mentioning his folly to me."

"The strangest thing of all is," said Melissa, suddenly assuming the seven-leagued sentimental boots in which she was sometimes wont to outstrip all her fellow-creatures, "that one should ever be able to see a fault in those one loves.

'I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart;

I but know that I love thee whatever thou art !'" "There's the dressing bell," cried Godfrey in a tone of intense relief, and the conversation broke up.

Ida had remained behind to put away her portfolio and pencils, and she was still thus occupied when Godfrey returned into the room. "Ida," said he, "what do you think of that couplet which dear aunt Melissa quoted just now? do you agree with it ?"

"Oh no!" said Ida, "who could agree with it? What kind of love could it be which was able to say 'I know not if guilt's in that heart?' It is true of course that we should not ask, but that would be because we should know that it was not there."

Godfrey looked at her with a strange sort of hesitating expression. "I once heard," said he, halflaughing, "a very curious discussion. The question proposed was this-Suppose you were to discover that

the person you loved best in the world was guilty of a very great crime-say, murder (everything, you know, is possible), what effect would it produce on your love? It was an odd idea, was it not? and there were a great many different opinions. One said, the love would be turned into hatred; another said, it would yield gradually to reason; and I think there was one lady who said that the love would be as strong as ever, but that it would become a source of misery instead of happiness. What should you have said, Ida ?"

"But I never could believe it," exclaimed Ida, lifting her large deep eyes to his face.

"Yes, but suppose you were forced to believe it." Ida became pale at the thought, and put her hands before her eyes. "Do you think it would be possible to live ?" asked shc.

"Well," said he, "but what I want to know is this.Would such a discovery utterly and at once annihilate affection ?"

"I don't suppose affection could ever quite be annihilated-could it ?" replied Ida. "It does not seem possible to leave off loving one whom you have really loved."

"It does not seem possible!" repeated Godfrey; "then you would wish it to be possible? you would think it right, and necessary, and proper to erase and smooth away the writing upon your heart, and make it a blank surface! you would separate yourself, and try to forget, and doubtless you would succeed, and doubtless you would be quite right. One sin lost Paradise in the beginning-so it may well lose the only copy of Paradise that we have left to us." "I cannot think," said Ida, 66 why you should imagine such painful things. However, of this I am quite sure, that in such a case I should not think as you do; so far from trying to destroy love, I think I should be doubly anxious to preserve it-it could never be so needful. For of course it must be a noble nature which had done this great wrong, otherwise it could never have won love at all;-and then, just imagine the remorse! how much comfort and help and tenderness such an one would require ;-oh no! I think I should cling closer than ever! But I believe it would kill me," added she shuddering; "and Icannot conceive the possibility of it."

"What a child you are, Ida!" cried Godfrey, laughing, and with an abruptness of manner which might have offended a person with more self-love—“you realize everything so vividly. I am sure you ought never to see a play acted, it would agitate you quite to distraction; you have been making almost a tragedy to yourself out of these baseless speculations of mine."

Ida looked up in his face with a kind of half-timid smile, as if she saw that he was a little cross, and felt quite sure that she must have been very foolish. “I am a child, I believe," said she. "It is a sad thing to be childish as I am at eighteen; I wonder what I shall be when I am quite an old woman."

Godfrey took both her hands in his. "Let us try and fancy you-!" exclaimed he; "my imagination is so vivid that I think I see the wrinkles gathering and the

gold turning to silver, (touching one of her long curls | suaded himself that he is like a Greek statue, and with the tip of his finger as he spoke.) What a wise, sharp face it will be in a mob cap (whatever that may be); and the eyes will have learnt communion with bitterer tears than those which come from ideal sorrows; they will have lost that upward look and that shining light of hope; they will be used to looking back, and dimmed as if by straining to see all that has passed away from them. And the lips will have grown charier of their smiles, and familiar with sage and sober words; and the heart, I verily believe it, will be a child's heart still!"

Ida was prevented from answering this speech, which was delivered with a strange kind of serious playfulness, by the entrance of Melissa, dressed for the evening and apparently much shocked by not finding her niece in a similar predicament. She followed her to her room and administered a most bewildering lecture upon etiquette, poor Ida remaining from first to last in profound ignorance of her meaning. Sundry awful hints that it was "not the thing," that "girls couldn't be too careful," that "people were always ready to talk," &c. &c. reduced Ida to a sense of some vague danger incurred by being too late for dinner, of which she certainly had formed no previous conception. However she expressed becoming penitence for her incautious crime, and succeeded in appeasing her aunt's wrath thereby.

My discerning readers will, of course, be anxious by this time to hear something more of Mrs. Chester. She had scrupulously observed the retirement for which she stipulated on first coming to Evelyn, till the last fortnight, in which, not without a severe struggle, she had begun to change her behaviour. She feared that she was very imperfectly fulfilling her pledge to Percy Lee, by giving up all surveillance of Ida in the new scenes to which she was now introduced; and many little touches in Ida's evening report of the day's recurrences made her feel somewhat anxious. She soon discovered that there was no fear of Alexander, though that complacent gentleman entertained a very different opinion. He had made Ida several pretty presents, and, in the simplicity of her gratitude, she had undertaken to work him a waistcoat, which he considered an unmistakeable proof that she was in love with him. It is not the jealous only who take trifles light as air for proofs of that which they are determined to believe; the vain and self-confident are at least equally open to deception. Indeed it would be a curious inquiry to distinguish and analyze the multitudinous assemblage of minute blunders which make up the foundation whereon rests a vain man's faith in the estimate which others have formed of him. And if the cause be curious, the result is at least equally so; and preeminently so was it in the present case. Poor Alexander" enacted the favoured lover quite to his own contentment, with the solitary drawback that he was not a favoured lover at all. He was like an illshapen man, who, by perpetually putting himself into the attitude of the Apollo Belvidere, has per

expects others to think the same. Between Ida and Frederick there had grown up one of those serene and tender friendships which are the very gardens of life. Gardens rich and lovely as that early Paradise wherein earth gave forth her fruits and flowers unasked, and there was nothing hurtful or venomous, neither storm nor cold, but a calm alternation of golden sunshine and glorious star-clothed night. It did not seem possible that there should ever be any offence between them; for there was neither caprice, nor passion, nor distrust, but each seemed to behold the other in a daylight too clear and pure for any vapour of earth or cloud of air to intercept the view. Their affection had grown up as a flower growsgently, swiftly, silently; no start nor check in its progress, but a gradual and uninterrupted unfolding into perfect beauty and fragrance. Alas, how few have such repose as this! How impatient are we in our love for each other, how exorbitant in our demands, how traitorous in our doubts! and our hearts burn within us as we say to ourselves, "We are not loved as we would be loved;" forgetting that love is timid and sensitive, and needs an invitation and a welcome. Perhaps we dread to trust what we call "our happiness" in the hands of another, and so we withdraw into ourselves; and what happiness have we then? Of what avail are jewels which are never taken out of their locked casket for fear of robbery? Love must be generous as well as fervent, or it can never fulfil its office.

But Ida and Godfrey. Their relation to each other was more difficult to comprehend. She was timid with him, which, gentle as she was, was not her habit; and he was still inexplicably changeable towards her. He had still those fits of gloom which had at first repelled her: he took every opportunity of throwing her with Frederick, and encouraging their intimacy, yet never was he so sombre as when he had succeeded in establishing a téte-à-tête between them. The brother and sister compact which they originally made with each other remained unbroken, and frequently seemed to be a reality as well as a name, though there was not at any time that perfect frankness between them, which is the characteristic of such a relationship. When apart, each thought of a hundred things to say to the other; when together, they would not unfrequently sit silent side by side, or else degenerate into a mere intercourse of trivialities. They had not yet attained to a full comprehension of each other; they were, so to speak, not in unison, but rather trembling with that strange suggestive discord which almost anticipates the perfect harmony in which it is about to be merged.

Nothing in Godfrey so entirely puzzled the observant Madeline as his behaviour to his mother. There was in it at times a kind of bitterness, which contrasted strongly with his tenderness to Frederick, and with his affection, at intervals, towards his mother herself. Madeline could attribute it only to a capriciousness of temper, which made her tremble at the

Melissa was not to be baffled, and she resumed: "You have not detected it? Well! that does not surprise me, because you have been so little with them. But I have observed them closely, and have quite made up my mind that unless something very mal-à-propos occurs it will be a match; so I hope you will trust to my discernment in the matter."

Madeline bit her lips. There was something indescribably irritating to her in hearing the future of her delicate and pure-hearted Ida discussed after this worldly fashion. Indeed, every word that the uncon

idea of trusting her darling's happiness in his hands. Mrs. Aytoun was so gentle, so entirely devoted to her children, that it was impossible to imagine any provocation on her part: besides, she was a mother; and if that be not claim enough on the love and reverence of a child, what shall suffice? It is in itself the visible symbol of the guardianship of angels. It has often been noticed, that the heroines of novels have, as a general rule, no mothers, and that the exceptions have parents of the Lady Ashton stampthe one mother whom Sir Walter Scott has delineated in all his volumes. The reason is simple enough.scious Melissa uttered was so provoking that silence If the fair object of our sympathy and of the author's cruelty had a mother, in the true sense of the word, she would be saved from all scrapes, supported through all difficulties, comforted in all troubles. She could not by any means contrive to be the martyr for whom our pitying admiration is demanded; no possible extent of ingenuity could spin three volumes out of her.

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'My dear Mrs. Chester," said Melissa, entering that lady's apartment with an air of peculiar condescension, I hope you intend to give us the pleasure of your company at the tea-table this evening." Madeline was standing at the window, watching the turbid red glow upon the horizon which preceded the rising of the moon. She came from the midst of it, pure and calm, and soared up into the cloudless sky overhead, penetrating the whole heavens with her pale emerald light, as the spirit of some glorified martyr might rise, placid and exulting, from the flames of the stake. Madeline turned towards her visitor, though her eyes wandered wistfully and regretfully back to the sky, and it might have been noticed that there was upon her cheek the glaze of scarcely dried tears. She answered, with her peculiar quiet proud manner, which rendered it so impossible to patronise her, that she had intended to come down stairs, and would now certainly do so.

"Because," said Melissa, confidentially, "I am a little anxious about our sweet Ida, and I want you to help me. You can scarcely have failed to observe the growing penchant between her and Alexander; and it is so desirable in every way, that I am very eager to help it forward. Godfrey is a little in our way; but I have noticed that he seems to enjoy your conversation, and if you will have the goodness to occupy him, we can leave the others a good deal to themselves."

Certainly Madeline was not well bred; I am sorry for it, but there is no denying it. She gave a slight scornful laugh, and replied that she did not think there was the slightest symptom of an attachment between Ida and Alexander. She gave herself the greatest credit for having made a polite and gentle answer. It is very odd that we are always most conscious of courtesy when we are outwardly most rude. I suppose the reason is, that we feel so much rudeness within, that the degree of rudeness which we display seems to us to be moderation, graciousness, and the most intense self-command.

seemed to be the only refuge from a positive quarrel, and so she was silent. What precious names we have to hear from common lips, and blended with vulgar thoughts! It seems profanation; as though the name were itself a living reality, and could feel the coarse handling which it encounters.

On went Melissa, growing more and more conciliatory as she proceeded, and little guessing the fuel which she was heaping at every word upon a fire now smouldering, but ready to break forth. It is unfortunate how much I am forced to dwell upon Madeline's faults, but I must confess that she was not what is popularly called good-tempered; not patient, not in the least placid, but with rather a habit of sarcasm, and with a great reservoir of hot indignation always ready to be opened. She had no notion of taking things quietly; there was no via media in her course; she was either excited or apathetic; and indeed the apathy was so habitual, that it required a pretty strong excitement to wake her out of it. Such an excitement did not seem likely to be wanting just at present.

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Now you see, my dear Mrs. Chester," pursued Melissa, "there are a hundred reasons why it is desirable that this marriage should take place. I need hardly recapitulate them to you. It is necessary that Ida should marry one of her cousins-that is indisputable; we have only to decide which the one shall be. Now, poor Frederick is out of the question, and I should be very sorry to see her married to Godfrey. It is painful to speak against one's own relations, but there are cases in which it is necessary. Godfrey's principles are very uncertain, and his temper violent. But Alexander is just the husband she requires. He is the natural heir; his conduct has always been perfectly unexceptionable; and he is, moreover, a man of the world. Now I consider it particularly desirable that Ida should marry a man of the world."

Madeline could be silent no longer. "Really," said she, "we differ so widely, that it seems useless to discuss this question. I have not agreed in one single word that you have been saying. I see no necessity for Ida's marrying one of her cousins-no necessity for her marrying at all. So far from considering Mr. Frederick Aytoun's blindness as an insurmountable obstacle, I should consider it, supposing them to be attached, as the strongest possible motive for union. The absence of one outward means of communication would draw their spirits more closely

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together, and make the invisible bond more real-the | I am quite willing to overlook your disrespect to myinvisible sympathy more tender. Moreover, she could self, since you are sorry for it; but I hope it will not never feel one of those misgivings, the torture of be repeated, as you must be aware that in our relative women, that she was not absolutely necessary to him. positions it is a kind of thing that cannot be tolerated. I perfectly agree with you, that Mr. Alexander Lee is I will take it for granted, however, that it is not to a man of the world, but that is the very reason why happen again. You will, of course, not attempt to I should look with horror at the possibility of. interfere in any way whatsoever with the course of However, I am quite sure it is impossible, so on that things, though your opinion may be very different to point my mind is easy." mine. I shall hope to see you in the drawing-room in a quarter of an hour."

All this was very blunt and rough, but there is no describing how much it cost Madeline to say it as civilly as she did. She was resisting all kinds of insane impulses; she longed to tell Melissa that she was a simpleton and a hypocrite, and to beg her to walk out of the room. Indeed, it was a narrow escape that she did not say something of the sort; and her voice and manner expressed it rather more clearly perhaps than words could have done.

Still Melissa persevered. "But, my dear Mrs. Chester, you evidently don't take my meaning; if you were to reflect a little upon Ida's peculiarities I am quite sure you would agree with me. She has not been educated according to ordinary ideas; indeed, my good brother Percy was always very eccentric, and he has suffered his eccentricities to affect his principle of education in-this is quite between ourselves a rather unfortunate manner. Sweet, and amiable, and pretty as Ida is, it cannot be denied that she is scarcely fit to mix in general society. Her intellects this is quite between ourselves, but you cannot fail to have noticed it-her intellects

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Melissa held out her hand with most repulsive urbanity. It was agony to Madeline, but she touched the cold fingers with her own, and as soon as Melissa was gone, flung herself upon her knees in a passion of contempt for herself and all the world; which must seem very disproportionate to its cause, to natures less stormily constituted than her own. "My own act again!" exclaimed she; "powerless by my own act! I could not answer her. I had not self-command to tell her quietly that I was bound to what she calls interference by duty, because I was a coward in the presence of my own passions. O God, forgive me!"

It never occurred to Madeline to feel humiliated by the apology she had compelled herself to make. Paradoxical as it may sound, her nature was a great deal too proud to be galled by this. She gave not so much as a passing thought to Melissa, either at the time or afterwards, but bitterly condemning herself for the recurrence of a fault long deplored, and scarcely half conquered, she made the instant atonement to her own conscience, and thought of nothing else. Melissa, however, like all cowards, became far more irate when the object of her wrath was not before her. As she

tell uncle John - (oh! poor uncle John, he little dreamed what was in store for him)—that he must inform Mrs. Chester that unless she altered her behaviour, she must leave the house. "It is the very least he can do for me," said Melissa to herself, with mild firmness; "and if he had any discernment, he would have done it long ago, without giving me the pain of suggesting it; and so I shall tell him."

"Her intellectual gifts are as rare as her moral," interrupted Madeline, with flashing eyes. "I don't wonder that you wish this to be quite between ourselves. Certainly she has not been educated accord-reflected upon her wrongs, she made up her mind to ing to ordinary ideas,' and ordinary persons must find it very difficult to comprehend her. Mr. Lee showed the wisdom which is as strongly his characteristic as goodness, in separating her from his family till she should be grown up. Her intellects-the idea of your saying anything about her intellects! It is Here Madeline suddenly checked herself, and covered her face with her hands, in instantaneous and deep self-abasement for her impetuosity. Before the bewildered Melissa had recovered presence of mind enough to compose a resentful speech, and while, indeed, she was inwardly debating whether or not a hysteric would be her best plan, her mouth was stopped by an apology. "I beg you to forgive me," said Madeline, with a mixture of pride and dejection in her manner perfectly indescribable, "I was very much to blame. I am very hasty. But," she added, having forced from herself this humiliating confession, not on Melissa's account but on her own, and resuming her accustomed manner when it was finished, "but I can only repeat that our views are 30 utterly different, that the endeavour to make them coincide would be quite hopeless."

Hopeless, indeed!" returned Melissa, with a severe graciousness of deportment, highly impressive. "I am sorry I have come on so bootless an errand.

When Madeline descended to the drawing-room, she found the whole party assembled, with the addition of a new comer, a fine little boy, six years old, the son of that Mr. Tyrrel who was alluded to in a letter of Melissa's, which the reader may possibly remember. He was a pretty, lively child, full of that innocent repartee which is so pleasant in unspoiled childhood; and he sat on Ida's lap, and was the object of unremitting attention, half jocose, half caressing, from the younger gentlemen of the party. Alexander plied him with strong tea and buttered toast, and asked him questions in sesquipedalian English, feeling quite sure that Ida thought him very witty, and that he was displaying that aptitude for winning a child's heart which is a pretty sure road to a woman's. We hope the parallel will not be considered insulting. After tea, a general petition was made to Mrs. Chester to sketch the little boy's portrait: his father was expected the

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