“Why, the fact is Alice, I remember Uncle Bacchus’s story about General Washington and his servant, when the general’s horse fell dead, or rather the exclamation made by the servant after relating the incident:  ’Master, he thinks of everything.’  I do too.  When we were children, no matter how bad Walter was, you took his part.  I remember once he gave William such a blow because he stumbled over a wagon that he had been making, and broke it.  I asked him if he were not ashamed to do so, and you said, ’Hush, Arthur, he feels bad; if you felt as sorry as he does, you would behave just in the same way.’  So, the fact is, last summer you saw he felt bad, and your tender heart inundated with sympathy.”

“That was it,” said Mrs. Weston; “it was a complete inundation.”

“You are not in love with him now, are you, Alice?” said Arthur, smiling.

“No, indeed,” said Alice, “I am not in love with him, or you either—­if being in love is what it is described in novels.  I never have palpitation of the heart, never faint away, and am not at all fond of poetry.  I should make a sad heroine, I am such a matter-of-fact person.”

“So as you make a good wife,” said Arthur, “no matter about being a heroine.”

“A planter’s wife has little occasion for romance,” said Mrs. Weston; “her duties are too many and too important.  She must care for the health and comfort of her family, and of her servants.  After all, a hundred servants are like so many children to look after.”

“Ellen would make an elegant heroine,” said Alice.  “She was left an orphan when very young; had an exacting uncle and aunt; was the belle of the metropolis; had gay and gallant lovers; is an heiress—­and has fallen in love with a man she never saw.  To crown all, he is not rich, so Ellen can give him her large fortune to show her devotion, and they can go all over the world together, and revel in romance and novelty.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “I will take you all over the world if you wish it.  When will you set out, and how will you travel?  If that is all you complain of in your destiny, I can easily change it.”

“I do not complain of my destiny,” said Alice, gaily.  “I was only contrasting it with Ellen’s.  I shall be satisfied never to leave Exeter, and my migrations need not be more extended than were Mrs. Primroses’s, ‘from the green room to the brown.’  Poor Walter!  I wish he would fall in love with some beautiful Italian, and be as happy as we are.”

“Do not fear for Walter,” said Mrs. Weston.  “He will take care of himself; his last letter to Cousin Janet was very cheerful.  I shall have to diminish your vanity, Alice, by telling you Walter will never ’die for love of Alice Weston.’  He will be captivated some day with a more dashy lady, if not an Italian countess.  I have no doubt he will eventually become a resident of Europe.  A life of repentance will not be too much for a man whose hands are stained with the blood of his fellowman.  The day is past in our country, and I rejoice to say it, when a duellist can be tolerated.  I always shudder when in the presence of one, though I never saw but one.”