It is the commonplaces of tenderness, and the every-day things about time and change, that are affecting; but if a speaker can add to all he touches concerning man’s life, and love, and destiny, something reached down from the dominion of thought, beautiful and fresh enough to make his hearers wonder at him, and experience that elation of heart which is the universal tribute paid to all beautiful things, then they will feel deeply perhaps; but the joy of beauty will elevate them, and the mind will save the eyes from annoying tears.

Before her guests retired, Emily having lingered up-stairs with the baby, Dorothea found herself for a few minutes alone with Justina, who was very tired, but felt that her task was not quite finished.  So, as she took up her bonnet and advanced to the looking-glass to put it on, she said, carelessly, “I wonder whether this colour will stand Italian sunshine.”

Dorothea’s fair young face was at once full of interest.  Justina saw curiosity, too, but none was expressed; she only said, with the least little touch of pique, “And you never told me that you were wishing so much to go away.”

Justina turned, and from her superior height stooped to kiss Dorothea, as if by way of apology, whereupon she added, “I had hoped, indeed, I felt sure, that you liked this place and this neighbourhood.”

“What are you alluding to, dear,” said Justina, though Dorothea had alluded to nothing.

But Dorothea remaining silent, Justina had to go on.

“I think (if that is what you mean) that no one who cares for me could wish me to undertake a very difficult task—­such a very difficult task as that, and one which perhaps I am not at all fit for.”

On this Dorothea betrayed a certain embarrassment, rather a painful blush tinged her soft cheek.  “I would not have taken the liberty to hint at such a thing,” she answered.

“She would not have liked it,” thought Justina, with not unnatural surprise; for Dorothea had shown a fondness for her.

“But of course I know there has been an idea in the neighbourhood that you——­”

“That I what?” asked Justina.

“Why that you might—­you might undertake it.”

“Oh, nonsense, dear! nonsense, all talk,” said Justina; “don’t believe a word of it.”  Her tone seemed to mean just the contrary, and Dorothea looked doubtful.

“There have been some attentions, certainly,” continued Justina, turning before the glass as if to observe whether her scarf was folded to her mind.  “Of course every one must have observed that!  But really, dear, such a thing”—­she put up her large steady hand, and fastened her veil with due care—­“such a thing as that would never do.  Who could have put it into your head to think of it?”

“She does not care for him in the least, then,” thought Dorothea; “and it seems that he has cared for her.  I don’t think he does now, for he seemed rather pleased to sketch out that tour which will take her away from him.  I like her, but even if it was base to her, I should still be glad she was not going to marry John Mortimer.”