“Now,” said Mrs. Sherman, “let us forget all unpleasantries, and give me one of your nice songs; I wonder where the Doctor is? he promised to be in to tea; but, I suppose, he has taken it where he is detained.”

Helen sat down, and played and sang.  At length, the Doctor’s voice was heard in the passage; but Mrs. Sherman insisted on her going on, and held up her finger, as her husband entered, in token of silence.  The Doctor sent Mrs. Sherman to the parlour door, where stood Mr. Mortimer; when Helen had finished, she turned and saw him.  He bowed and went across to her, and expressed his pleasure in meeting her again, in such a frank off-hand manner, that our heroine, if such she, may be called, soon lost all feeling of embarrassment, and went on playing and singing and the evening passed imperceptibly away.  When the Doctor escorted Helen home, Mr. Mortimer accompanied them to the gate, leading to the cottage and took his leave.

Their meeting at Dr. Sherman’s was entirely the result of accident.  Mr. Mortimer had been on friendly terms at the house ever since he had been in the neighbourhood, but as both the Doctor and his wife concluded he was engaged to Miss Falkner, they never thought to ask him, when Helen was expected, and so tenacious was he, not to win her affections, till assured he could make her his, that he carefully assumed an indifference he was far from feeling.  He pitied her position; which he saw was a trying one; and he greatly admired the way she acquitted herself in it.  He gained a great insight into her character, in his conversations with Henry, who, entirely off his guard, was very communicative.  The following letter, however, from Mr. Mortimer to an old friend, will best elicit his views and opinions: 

  “MY DEAR EMMERSON,

“I promised to let you know where I brought up, and here I am, domiciled in a pretty little country village, where Bently has property, and I have hired his snug hunting lodge, and, in the mind I am in, I shall remain the next six months, that is, if when the term for renting this said lodge expires, I can find a place to which I can bring my sister Emily, Here there is hardly room enough for myself and Philips, who is still my factotum, valet, groom, and I know not what besides; however, he is content, and so am I. Heartily sick of town, and its conventualities, and tired of being courted and feted, not for myself, but my fortune, I care not, if I never see it again.  I am weary, too, of ‘single blessedness,’ and yet afraid to venture on matrimony; why is it so few are happy, who do?  There is some grand evil somewhere; but where?  ’Aye there’s the rub.’  I look narrowly into every family I visit, especially, the newly married ones, and I see the effect, but not the cause.  Now, one cannot be without the other, we well know.  I fear I expect too much from the other sex, and begin to think there is more truth than poetry in your