This had happened two years before, and during all the time since then Lawrence Newt had often called—­had met Amy in the street on many errands—­had met her at balls whenever he found she was going.  He did not ask her to drive with him.  He did not send her costly gifts.  He did nothing that could exclude the attentions of younger men.  But sometimes a basket of flowers came for Miss Waring—­without a card, without any clue.  The good-hearted mother thought of various young men, candidates for degrees in Amy’s favor, who had undoubtedly sent the flowers.  The good-hearted mother, who knew that Amy was in love with none of them, pitied them—­thought it was a great shame they should lose their time in such an utterly profitless business as being in love with Amy; and when any of them called said, with a good-humored sigh, that she believed her daughter would never be any thing but a Sister of Charity.

Sometimes also a new book came, and on the fly-leaf was written, “To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.”  Then the good-hearted mother remarked that some men were delightfully faithful to old associations, and that it was really beautiful to see Mr. Newt keeping up the acquaintance so cordially, and complimenting his old friend so delicately by thinking of pleasing her daughter.  What a pity he had never married, to have had daughters of his own!  “But I suppose, Amy, some men are born to be bachelors.”

“I suppose they are, mother,” Amy replied, and found immediately after that she had left her scissors, she couldn’t possibly remember where; perhaps in your room, mamma, perhaps in mine.

They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious! there they lay in her own room upon the table.  In her own room, where she opened the new book and read in it for half an hour at a time, but always poring on the same page.  It was such a profound work.  It was so full of weighty matter.  When would she ever read it through at this rate, for the page over which she pored had less on it than any other page in the book.  In fact it had nothing on it but that very commonplace and familiar form of words, “To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.”

Amy was entirely of her mother’s opinion.  Some men are undoubtedly born to be bachelors.  Some men are born to be as noble as the heroes of romances—­simple, steadfast, true; to be gentle, intelligent, sagacious, with an experience that has mellowed by constant and various intercourse with men, but with a heart that that intercourse has never chilled, and a faith which that experience has only confirmed.  Some men are born to possess every quality of heart, and mind, and person that can awaken and satisfy the love of a woman.  Yes, unquestionably, said Amy Waring in her mind, which was so cool, so impartial, so merely contemplating the subject as an abstract question, some men—­let me see, shall I say like Lawrence Newt, simply as an illustration?—­well, yes—­some men like Lawrence Newt, for instance, are born to be all that some women dream of in their souls, and they are the very ones who are born to be bachelors.