“And is it then so necessary?”

Emily looked up from arranging some laces, with an expression of surprise, as he replied: 

“Did you not hear him talk of those poems, and attempt to point out the beauties of several works?  I thought everything he uttered was referred to taste, and that not a very natural one; at least,” she added with a laugh, “it differed greatly from mine.  He seemed to forget altogether there was such a thing as principle:  and then he spoke of some woman to Jane, who had left her father for her lover, with so much admiration of her feelings, to take up with poverty and love, as he called it, in place of condemning her want of filial piety—­I am sure, aunt, if you had heard that, you would not admire him so much.”

“I do not admire him at all, child; I only want to know your sentiments, and I am happy to find them so correct.  It is as you think; Colonel Egerton appears to refer nothing to principle:  even the more generous feelings I am afraid are corrupted in him, from too low intercourse with the surface of society.  There is by far too much pliability about him for principle of any kind, unless indeed it be a principle to please, no matter how.  No one, who has deeply seated opinions of right and wrong, will ever abandon them, even in the courtesies of polite intercourse:  they may be silent but never acquiescent:  in short, my dear, the dread of offending our Maker ought to be so superior to that of offending our fellow creatures, that we should endeavor, I believe, to be even more unbending to the follies of the world than we are.”

“And yet the colonel is what they call a good companion—­I mean a pleasant one.”

“In the ordinary meaning of the words, he is certainly, my dear; yet you soon tire of sentiments which will not stand the test of examination, and of a manner you cannot but see is artificial.  He may do very well for a companion, but very ill for a friend; in short, Colonel Egerton has neither been satisfied to yield to his natural impressions, nor to obtain new ones from a proper source; he has copied from bad models, and his work must necessarily be imperfect.”

Kissing her niece, Mrs. Wilson then retired into her own room, with the happy assurance that she had not labored in vain; but that, with divine aid, she had implanted a guide in the bosom of her charge that could not fail, with ordinary care, to lead her straight through the devious path of female duties.

Chapter VII.

A Month now passed in the ordinary occupations and amusements of a country life, during which both Lady Moseley and Jane manifested a desire to keep up the deanery acquaintance, that surprised Emily a little, who had ever seen her mother shrink from communications with those whose breeding subjected her own delicacy, to the little shocks she could but ill conceal.  In Jane this desire was still more inexplicable; for