his naughtiness, many a time; I had stood with him by his mother’s dying bed and consoled him by my own tears, for his mother I loved dearly; so, ever since, Frank had been both near and dear to me, for a mutual sorrow is a tie that may bind together even a young man and an old maid in close and kindly friendship.  I was the more surprised at his engagement because I thought he would have been the first to tell me of it; but I reflected that Laura was his cousin, and relationship has an etiquette of precedence above any other social link.

“Yes,—­Frank Addison!  Now guess, Miss Sue! for he is not here to tell you,—­he is in New York; and here in my pocket I have got a letter for you, but you shan’t have it till you have well guessed.”

I was—­I am ashamed to confess it—­but I was not a little comforted at hearing of that letter.  One may shake up a woman’s heart with every alloy of life, grind, break, scatter it, till scarce a throb of its youth beats there, but to its last bit it is feminine still; and I felt a sudden sweetness of relief to know that my boy had not forgotten me.

“I don’t know whom to guess, Laura; who ever marries after other people’s fancy?  If I were to guess Sally Hetheridge, I might come as near as I shall to the truth.”

Laura laughed.

“You know better,” said she.  “Frank Addison is the last man to marry a dried-up old tailoress.”

“I don’t know that he is; according to his theories of women and marriage, Sally would make him happy.  She is true-hearted, I am sure,—­generous, kind, affectionate, sensible, and poor.  Frank has always raved about the beauty of the soul, and the degradation of marrying money,—­therefore, Laura, I believe he is going to marry a beauty and an heiress.  I guess Josephine Bowen.”

“Susan!” exclaimed Laura, with a look of intense astonishment, “how could you guess it?”

“Then it is she?”

“Yes, it is,—­and I am so sorry! such a childish, giggling, silly little creature!  I can’t think how Frank could fancy her; she is just like Dora in “David Copperfield,”—­a perfect gosling!  I am as vexed”——­

“But she is exquisitely pretty.”

“Pretty! well, that is all; he might as well have bought a nice picture, or a dolly!  I am out of all patience with Frank.  I haven’t the heart to congratulate him.”

“Don’t be unreasonable, Laura; when you get as old as I am, you will discover how much better and greater facts are than theories.  It’s all very well for men to say,—­

  ’Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat,’—­

the soul is all they love,—­the fair, sweet character, the lofty mind, the tender woman’s heart, and gentle loveliness; but when you come down to the statistics of love and matrimony, you find Sally Hetheridge at sixty an old maid, and Miss Bowen at nineteen adored by a dozen men and engaged to one.  No, Laura, if I had ten sisters, and a fairy godmother for each, I should request that ancient dame to endow them all with beauty and silliness, sure that then they would achieve a woman’s best destiny,—­a home.”