“The bone-parties of old Doctor Dastick,” explained the Colonel, “are entertainments peculiar to Foxden; and as there is to be one this evening to which we are all invited, any anticipation of the diversion seems likely to diminish whatever of satisfaction may be in prospect.  I will, however, remark, that some of the Doctor’s guests are grievously oppressed by somnolence during his scholastic expositions; as a protection against which infirmity of the flesh, I do commend an after-dinner nap.  It has been the fashion of the house since the days of my grandfather; and as he lived to a ripe old age, I do not think it could have been deleterious.”

Soon after this, Colonel Prowley pushed back his chair from the table as a signal for the dispersal of the party.  And I betook myself to my chamber, a sober apartment, with very uneven floor and very small windows, through one of which I peered out upon the box before the house, and thought over the people whose acquaintance I had just made.  Once only were these musings interrupted by snatches of a conversation between my host and hostess as they passed across the piazza.

“When this comes about, sister, as I still believe it must, you shall adorn a page of my diary with one of your illustrative drawings.  A pair of doves would be appropriate, or perhaps a vine clinging round an oak.”

“And which of our guests is to be represented by the oak?” asked Miss Prowley, in a tone which betrayed a woman’s perception of matrimonial incongruities.

“Nay, sister, our young friend has a steadiness of character which would be ill-mated with some giddy girl from the nursery.  So make your vine a little woody, and the union will be all the firmer.”

As there was no chance of taking a nap after this, I presently descended to walk in the garden.  And there I encountered Miss Hurribattle, who did not seem to be one of the convenient visitors who can be put to sleep after dinner.  The conversation which I had the honor of renewing with the lady, though it did not at all advance the whimsical project of Colonel Prowley, increased my respect for the high instincts of Nature which prompted her concern in the elevation of woman.  She showed me how a reform, presenting on its surface much that was meagre and partial, was sustained by those accomplished in the study of the question, no less from the rigorous necessities of logic than from the demonstrations of history and experiment.

And here, perchance, the reader observes that we make but slight progress towards a solution of the inquiry proposed some pages back.  Yet let it be remembered that in real experience the novelist’s art of foreshadowing the end from the beginning and aiming every petty incident at the final result is very seldom perceptible. “Il ne faut pas voyager pour voir, mais pour ne pas voir,” says the proverb; and the journey of life is included in its application.  We do our rarest deeds, we take our most important steps, by what seems accident.  Instead of forming plans with remote designs, we find it our best policy to seize circumstances as they run past us,—­knowing, that, if we have strength and quickness enough, we may take from them all that is required.