“What! cast away the flower I took in the bud because it does not show as I hoped it would when it opened?  I will stand by my word; I will be all as a man that I promised as a boy.  Thank God, she is true and pure and sweet.  My nest will be a peaceful one; but I must take wing alone,—­alone.”

He drew one long sigh, and the cloud passed from his countenance.  He must answer that letter now, at once.  There were reasons, he thought, which made it important.  And so, with the cheerfulness which it was kind and becoming to show, so far as possible, and yet with a little excitement on one particular point, which was the cause of his writing so promptly, he began his answer.

Alderbank, Thursday morning, June 16, 1859.

My dear Susie,—­I have just been reading your pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice, which will do just as well,—­won’t it, my dear?  I was interested in your account of various things going on at Oxbow Village.  I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins so agreeable a friend.  His poetry is better than some which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally unexceptionable in its subjects and tone.  I do not believe he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing verse does not always improve the character.  I think I have seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited, sentimental, and frivolous,—­perhaps it found them so already.  Don’t make too much of his talent, and particularly don’t let him think that because he can write verses he has nothing else to do in this world.  That is for his benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it.

Now about yourself.  My dear Susie, there was something in your letter that did not please me.  You speak of a visit from the Rev. Mr. Stoker, and of his kind, brotherly treatment, his cordiality of behavior, and his asking you to visit him in his study.  I am very glad to hear you say that you “don’t seem to like him.”  He is very familiar, it seems to me, for so new an acquaintance.  What business had he to be laying his hand on your shoulder?  I should like to see him try these free-and-easy ways in my presence!  He would not have taken that liberty, my dear!  No, he was alone with you, and thought it safe to be disrespectfully familiar.  I want you to maintain your dignity always with such persons, and I beg you not to go to the study of this clergyman, unless some older friend goes with you on every occasion, and sits through the visit.  I must speak plainly to you, my dear, as I have a right to.  If the minister has anything of importance to say, let it come through the lips of some mature person.  It may lose something of the fervor with which it would have been delivered at first hand, but the great rules of Christian life are not so dependent on the particular individual who speaks them, that you must go to this or that young man to find out what they are.  If to any man, I should prefer the old gentleman whom you have mentioned in your letters, Father Pemberton.  You understand me, my dear girl, and the subject is not grateful.  You know how truly I am interested in all that relates to you,—­that I regard you with an affection which—­