“You see,” she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal, “you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don’t often speak of myself.  It isn’t my habit; ’t isn’t agreeable to me.  In fact, I haven’t strength to do it.  But there are points where St. Clare and I differ.  St. Clare never understood me, never appreciated me.  I think it lies at the root of all my ill health.  St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe; but men are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to woman.  That, at least, is my impression.”

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn into family difficulties, now began to foresee something of this kind impending; so, composing her face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out of her pocket about a yard and a quarter of stocking, which she kept as a specific against what Dr. Watts asserts to be a personal habit of Satan when people have idle hands, she proceeded to knit most energetically, shutting her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words could, “You needn’t try to make me speak.  I don’t want anything to do with your affairs,”—­in fact, she looked about as sympathizing as a stone lion.  But Marie didn’t care for that.  She had got somebody to talk to, and she felt it her duty to talk, and that was enough; and reinforcing herself by smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.

“You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them my own way.  St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I’m well enough content he should manage them his way; but St. Clare will be interfering.  He has wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly about the treatment of servants.  He really does act as if he set his servants before me, and before himself, too; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger.  Now, about some things, St. Clare is really frightful—­he frightens me—­good-natured as he looks, in general.  Now, he has set down his foot that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck in this house, except what he or I strike; and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him.  Well, you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare wouldn’t raise his hand, if every one of them walked over him, and I—­you see how cruel it would be to require me to make the exertion.  Now, you know these servants are nothing but grown-up children.”

“I don’t know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don’t!” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.

“Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost, if you stay here.  You don’t know what a provoking, stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are.”

Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon this topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget her languor.