“Well, well, Steve.  I don’t fret myself because I am set in stiller ways, and I don’t blame those who like the hurryment of steam and metal.  Each of us has God’s will to do, and our own race to run; and may we prosper.”

After this, Steve, sometimes gaining and sometimes losing, gradually won his way back to the squire’s liking.  September proved to be an unusually fair month; and to the lovers it was full of happiness, for early in it their relation to each other was fully recognized; and Stephen had gone in and out of the pleasant “Seat,” dayshine and dark, as the acknowledged lover of Charlotte Sandal.  The squire, upon the whole, submitted gracefully:  he only stipulated that for some time, indefinitely postponed, the subject of marriage was not to be taken into consideration.  “I could not bear it any road.  I could not bear it yet, Stephen.  Wait your full time, and be glad to wait.  So few young men will understand that to pluck the blossom is to destroy the fruit.”

Towards the end of September, there was a letter from Sophia dated Florence.  Some letters are like some individuals, they carry with them a certain unpleasant atmosphere.  None of Sophia’s epistles had been very satisfactory; for they were so short, and yet so definitely pinned to Julius, that they were but commentaries on that individual.  At Paris she had simply asked Julius, “What do you think of Paris?” And the opinion of Julius was then given to Seat-Sandal confidently as the only correct estimate that the world was likely to get.  At Venice, Rome, Naples, her plan was identical; and any variation of detail simply referred to the living at different places, and how Julius liked it, and how it had agreed with him.

So when the Florence letter came, there was no particular enthusiasm about it.  The address assigned it to the squire, and he left it lying on the table while he finished the broiled trout and coffee before him.  But it troubled Charlotte, and she waited anxiously for the unpleasant words she felt sure were inside of it.  Yet there was no change on the squire’s face, and no sign of annoyance, as he read it.  “It is about the usual thing, Alice.  Julius likes Florence.  It is called ‘the beautiful.’  Julius thinks that it deserves the title.  The wine in Rome did not suit Julius, but he finds the Florence vintage much better.  The climate is very delightful, Julius is sure he will derive benefit from it; and so on, and so on, and so on.”  Then there was a short pause, and a rapid turn of the sheet to glance at the other side.  “Oh, Julius met Harry yesterday!  He—­Julius—­does not think Harry is doing right.  ’Harry always was selfish and extravagant, and though he did affront us on our wedding-day, Julius thought it proper to call upon him.  He—­I mean Harry—­was with a most beautiful young girl.  Julius thinks father ought to write to him, and tell him to go back to his duty.’”