“My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness.  I could not bear to give you a moment’s certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil.  I really cannot discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one’s self by anticipation.  I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind perpetually on the rack of anticipating evil.  I perfectly agree with that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general reflections on the evils of life, that can have no effect in preparing us for them; and if we bring them home to us, that is the certain means of rendering ourselves miserable.”

“But they will come, Charles,” said his mother mournfully, “whether we bring them or not.”

“True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with resignation.  There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating can only serve to contract and depress it.”

Mrs. Lennox shook her head.  “Ah!  Charles, you may depend upon it your reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day.”

“I am convinced of it already.  I begin to fear this discussion will frighten Miss Douglas away from us. There is an evil anticipated!  Now, do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it cannot be too soon apprehended.”

As Colonel Lennox’s character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course.  But good Mrs. Lennox would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands that were made upon it.  Mary would have been deeply mortified had she suspected the cause of her friend’s solicitude to show her off; but she was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed.  She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs. Lennox’s panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt Jacky’s wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.

“You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love—­he has never heard you sing.  Pray do:  you did not use to require any entreaty from me, Mary!  Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!”

Mary, finding whatever she did or did not, she was destined to hear only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she sang the following ancient ditty:—­