“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing!  I have thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself for meaning to be so much in earnest and—­somehow—­not exactly being so.  I don’t know how it is; I seem to want something or other to stand by.  Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don’t settle down to constancy in other things.  It’s such uphill work, and it takes such a time!” said Richard with an air of vexation.

“That may be,” I suggested, “because you don’t like what you have chosen.”

“Poor fellow!” said Ada.  “I am sure I don’t wonder at it!”

No.  It was not of the least use my trying to look wise.  I tried again, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!

“You see, my precious girl,” said Richard, passing her golden curls through and through his hand, “I was a little hasty perhaps; or I misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps.  They don’t seem to lie in that direction.  I couldn’t tell till I tried.  Now the question is whether it’s worth-while to undo all that has been done.  It seems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.”

“My dear Richard,” said I, “how can you say about nothing particular?”

“I don’t mean absolutely that,” he returned.  “I mean that it may be nothing particular because I may never want it.”

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone.  I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial pursuit.

“There, my dear Mrs. Shipton,” said Richard, “you touch me home.  Yes, I have.  I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.”

“The law!” repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

“If I went into Kenge’s office,” said Richard, “and if I were placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the—­hum!—­ the forbidden ground—­and should be able to study it, and master it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly conducted.  I should be able to look after Ada’s interests and my own interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.”

I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankering after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes cast a shade on Ada’s face.  But I thought it best to encourage him in any project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite sure that his mind was made up now.

“My dear Minerva,” said Richard, “I am as steady as you are.  I made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won’t do so any more, and I’ll become such a lawyer as is not often seen.  That is, you know,” said Richard, relapsing into doubt, “if it really is worth-while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!”