with you, that year of your mother's illness, but I never liked to touch on it.

S. I was so thankful to you. Mamma did once or twice, but without a notion of what it was to me, first blaming me for holding back, and then discussing as if it were a common piece of daily life. I believe I had a great escape. There was no one to warn me, they were both always unsuspicious, and thought the best of everybody, and Henry was abroad. I found accidentally since, that he could not bear him.

E. The line he has taken, shows enough that it would never have done. But it never did come to anything?

S. No. I used to fidget in those days, and think it made the whole difference whether one were here or there, or whether there were any civility shown. And though I would not for the world have suggested anyone being asked, I should have liked it to have been done naturally. I did not see then that all such turns in life are ordered for one, and one has only to sit still; and if a vision drift Away, why it is better.

E. One sees all that in looking back, and how much one does after all brangle and meddle with what is our appointed lot, and make it confused instead of plain. I often think that even difficult decisions are in a degree brought on ourselves, and those who earnestly try only to do God's Will are saved from them, or see their way through them. But as to love affairs, I am sure that no earnest steady intention is helped or hindered by anything done on the other side, and in your case, your going to Brighton would have made no difference had there been reality.

S. No, by that time I saw it rightly, and took that as showing me that it was not to be; and I had considered it all during the nursing, and got out of my delusions to a degree. It was before that, when I was doing schoolroom, that I was so bewildered, and had to plunge into

lessons to keep myself straight. When you say reality, understand that there was plenty of assiduousness at the time, not openly, but trying to get at my mind, and watching whatever I did or thought, only I suppose it cooled in absence, and seemed imprudent. Oh, dear, I never talked of it before, it seems such ages ago, and it is mighty prosaic work to see the after lives of people one might have married, a good cure for sentiment. I wish girls were more cautioned and warned when they first go out. They are so silly, and the mothers so careless. E. Not all, I hope.

S. Well, not all, of course, but many good mothers seem to let them go their own way.

E. I dare say, not aware of the extent of silliness, and trusting to their principles to keep them from being easily attracted, and from any foolish flirting; they would watch over anything real. You and I should hold that a rightminded girl would not let herself be disturbed by common ball-room talk.

S. Only they are not right-minded, and they will make little attentions into romances. As you say, the mothers

do not always see it.

E. I think there are many like your mother, unsuspicious, and, I should say, innocent, married early, and living in a nursery atmosphere; they do not think about the wickedness or worldliness of grown people.

S. And they have no sympathy or delicacy in treating incipient love affairs. It is odd how soon they forget their own youth. Now no one feels more than Mamma for all one's little troubles and frights-dentists, riding, illness, shyness-she will pity one more than enough; but the moment you come to really deep feelings that cannot bear the daylight, and are like a sore place to touch, she will discuss them in a matter-of-fact way, like a governess, or a party, and then one must shut up, and almost become deceitful. And beginning any such subject is quite impossible if it is to be met so.

E. I think again you are severe; it cannot be, really, want of sympathy, but the habit of being engrossed by realities, and not conversant with dreams, being herself composed, and not excitable, and also, please to remember, accustomed to see you so very high and mighty, and having to lecture you for being cold to people. The last thing she would suspect you of would be a piece of folly I or flirting. I am sure any real love affair that went cross she would have felt for as kindly as anybody. How did Agnes manage?

S. That was easy enough, because Edward got introduced to Papa at once, and struck up an agricultural friendship, and then he was asked to stay, and we all got intimate. Everybody knew what was coming, and Agnes is never awkward. Mamma used to talk to me about it, and I only begged her to say nothing to Agnes. What use could there be? So it all went on selon les regles, and he spoke to Papa first; and it is my belief, he proposed over a drill, but I do not know. Then Mamma was told, and Agnes sent for, and, of course, the children burst in in the middle. Then they had it out in the garden. Do you know, notwithstanding all I said before, and the silliness of people's speeches, and my home happiness and comfort, I did feel the contrast a little to all the things that had gone cross with me. Are you shocked?

E. No; that is quite natural, any one would feel it, and it is quite distinct from jealousy.

S. Understand it was not the éclat, but the entire confidence and security, the looking into each other without a shade of doubt. But this is very absurd, because I do really choose and prefer my own lot.

E. Only if you would not think it your settled lot at four-and-twenty.

S. Well, you will allow it is settled for the present, and that the duties wanted me and I wanted them; and everything has tended to it, especially the going out of

parliament, and getting quit of London. You never wan one to look beyond the day.

E. Most certainly not; all is ordered for you now.

S. And Mamma never said, I wish it were you. Wel now, to have done with retrospection, the next thing i Schwalbach, and I must get travelling-bags into my head instead of moiré antique and Honiton lace. Eleanor, was very naughty about all that. I never asked your pardon.

E. I do not think you saw things quite in the light that I did.

S. I had rather a horror of running after health, and of that sort of frittery idle life; and when people once begin, they are so apt to think they must go every year, and get to consider all their complaints, and think what water will cure them. Surely our ailments are not all meant to be cured, but to be borne, and to work for good for us.

E. It is easy for those who are well to think so; but when health really interferes with duty, and means of relief are offered us, it seems right to embrace them. I think the sort of health your mother now has, is rather disturbing to the mind, leading her to scruples about not exciting herself, or else to over-exertion. And I think, in her case, a thorough change of scene, life, and ideas. will be an excellent thing. I quite feel with you, though, about the Brunnen life, and the people who go needlessly, or merely make some trifling illness a pretext, and go for amusement; but you will not suspect your mother or me of being too gay, nor grudge us a little idleness, a great blessing now and then.

S. I see all that now. I should have liked change in England for her-sea or mountains-but I seldom can persuade her to go anywhere, and she says it is a waste of money; and so I think, if one had the money for anything

⚫better..

T

E. Change in England is not quite the same thing; and besides, I sincerely think a little of Nature's chemistry may do her good.

S. At first I could not bear her to go without me, and yet it seemed leaving one's duties..

E. And let me say one home-truth, though I seldom trouble you with such now. You did not quite relish its being settled without you.

S. That is true enough; the habit of managing, I fear, is very spoiling.

E. It is a thing to guard against when people are placed, as you are, rather out of your own position.

S. It came on me so suddenly.

E. I must have seemed to interfere; but, you see, your mother began the subject herself, and said, 'I wonder whether, after all, those German waters would do me any good!' and then I found her great difficulty was about leaving your father, knowing that it would not suit him to go; and I could hardly help offering myself, being free to go, and. very unequal to take your place here; and she quite caught at it, and said if she left you at home, her mind would be quite easy.

S. And now she is persuaded that some waters would do you good too, and I rather keep her up to that. She does not like things being done for her only. And I do not think you are at all strong.

E. Perhaps I shall never be so strong again, because long overstrain tells on nights and nerves, and on one's whole frame. And I have sometimes craved rest, so I welcome it, and the places will bring back many pleasant recollections. I am sure we had reason to speak of them gratefully.

S. After all, it is a good thing that you are free just now. I have often wondered that you did not give yourself to some work at once, to save being at everybody's beck and call.

PART 73.