lover, Edwin Lechmere, bestowed upon her beautiful cousin.  Mary Charles was herself a beauty—­fair, open-eyed, warm-hearted—­the beauty of Repton; but though feature by feature, inch by inch, she was as handsome as Mary, yet in her cousin was the grace and spirit given only by good society; the manners elevated by a higher mind, and toned down by sorrow; a gentle softness, which a keen observer of human nature told me once no woman ever possessed unless she had deeply loved, and suffered from disappointed affection; in short, she was far more refined, far more fascinating, than her country cousin:  besides, she was unfortunate, and that at once gave her a hold upon the sympathies of the young curate:  it did no more:  but Mary Charles did not understand these nice distinctions, and nothing could exceed the change of manner she evinced when her cousin and her betrothed were together.

Mary thought her cousin rude and petulant; but the true cause of the change never occurred to her.  Accustomed to the high-toned courtesy of well-bred men, which is so little practised in the middle class of English society, it never suggested itself, that placing her chair, or opening the door for her to go out, or rising courteously when she came into a room, was more than, as a lady, she had a right to expect; in truth, she did not notice it at all; but she did notice and feel deeply her cousin’s alternate coldness and snappishness of manner.  “I would not,” thought Mary, “have behaved so to her if she had been left desolate; but in a little time, when my mother is more content, I will leave Repton, and become independent by my talents.”  Never did she think of the power delegated to her by, the Almighty without feeling herself raised—­ay, higher than she had ever been in the days of her splendour—­in the scale of moral usefulness; as every one must feel whose mind is rightly framed.  She had not yet known what it was to have her abilities trampled on or insulted; she had never experienced the bitterness consequent upon having the acquirements—­which in the days of her prosperity commanded silence and admiration—­sneered at or openly ridiculed.—­She had yet to learn that the Solons, the law-givers of English society, lavish their attentions and praise upon those who learn, not upon those who teach.

Mary had not been six months fatherless, when she was astonished, first by a letter, and then by a visit, from her former lover; he came to renew his engagement, and to wed her even then if she would have him; but Mary’s high principle was stronger than he imagined.  “No,” she said, “you are not independent of your father, and whatever I feel, I have no right to draw you down into poverty.  You may fancy now that you could bear it; but a time would come—­if not to you, to me—­when the utter selfishness of such conduct would goad me to a death of early misery.”  The young man appealed to her uncle, who thought her feelings overstrained, but respected her for it nevertheless; and in the warmth of his admiration, he communicated the circumstance to his wife and daughter.