“I am afraid it is Henry Malden,” said I, meditatively; “he is all you describe, but he is also radically bad; besides, having been in the Mexican war, he will have the prestige of a hero to Letty.  How can the poor girl be undeceived before it is quite too late?”

“What do you want to undeceive her for, Sally?  Do you suppose that will prevent her marrying Mr. Malden?”

“I should think so, most certainly!”

“Not in the least.  If you want Letty to marry him, just judiciously oppose it.  Go to her, and say you come as a friend to tell her Mr. Malden’s faults, and the result will be, she will hate you, and be deeper in love with him than ever.”

“You don’t give her credit for common sense, Jo.”

“Just as much as any girl of her age has in love.  Did you ever know a woman who gave up a man she loved because she was warned against him?—­or even if she knew his character well, herself?  I don’t know but there are women who could do it, from sheer religious principle.  I believe you might, Sarah.  It would be a hard struggle, and wear you to a shadow in mind and body; but you have a conscience, and, for a woman with a heart as soft as pudding, the most thoroughly rigid streak of duty in you; none of which Letty has to depend on.  No; if you want to save her, take her away from Slepington; take her to Saratoga, to Newport, to Washington; turn her small head with gayety:  she is pretty enough to have a dozen lovers at any watering-place; it is only propinquity that favors Mr. Malden here.”

“I can’t do that, Josephine.  I have not the means, and Miss Allis would not have the will, even if she believed in your prescription.”

“Then Letty must stay here and bide her time.  You believe in a special Providence, Sarah, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then cannot you leave her to that care?  Circumstances do not work for you.  Perhaps it is best that she should marry him, suffer, live, love, and be refined by fire.”

My heart sunk at the prospect of these possibilities.  Josephine put her arm round me.  “Sally,” said she, in her softest tone, “I grieved you, dear, this afternoon.  I did not mean to.  I grieved myself most.  Please forgive me!”

“I haven’t anything to forgive, Jo,” said I.  “What you said to me was true, painfully true,—­and, being so, for a moment pained me.  I should have been much happier to be married, I know; but now I daren’t think of it.  I have lost a great deal.  I have

 “—­’lost my place,
  My sweet, safe corner by the household fire,
  Behind the heads of children’;

“and yet I do not know that I have not gained a little.  It is something, Jo, to know that I am not in the power of a bad, or even an ill-tempered man.  I can sit by my fire and know that no one will come home to fret at me,—­that I shall encounter no cold looks, no sneers, no bursts of anger, no snarl of stinginess, no contempt of my opinion and advice.  I know that now men treat me with respect and attention, such as their wives rarely, if ever, receive from them.  Sensitive and fastidious as I am, I do not know whether my gain is not, to me, greater than my loss.  I know it ought not to be so,—­that it argues a vicious, an unchristian, almost an uncivilized state of society; but that does not affect the facts.”