I imagine there are very few of us who would agree with some of our philosophers, that ’the pursuit of truth is far more important than the attainment thereof’—­that philosophizing is more valuable than philosophy.  To be conversant with the abstractions which, in the hands of some metaphysical giants, have rendered both mind and matter like abstractions, is a course of proceeding I should scarcely indorse; and the best antidote I remember just now to any such web-spinning proclivities is a persual of the three first lectures of Sidney Smith on ‘Moral Philosophy.’  In recapitulating the tenets of the schools, he says:  ’The speculations of many of the ancients on the human understanding are so confused, and so purely hypothetical, that their greatest admirers are not agreed upon their meaning; and whenever we can procure a plain statement of their doctrines, all other modes of refuting them appear to be wholly superfluous.’  Miss Beulah, I especially commend you to these humorous lectures.”  He bowed to her with easy grace.

“I have them, sir—­have read them with great pleasure,” said Beulah, smiling at his droll manner of mingled reserve and freedom.

“What an exalted estimate that same incorrigible Sidney must have placed upon the public taste of this republican land of ours?  In one of his lectures on ‘the beauty of form,’ I remember he says:  ’A chin ending in a very sharp angle would be a perfect deformity.  A man whose chin terminated in a point would be under the immediate necessity of retiring to America—­he would be such a perfect horror!’ Decidedly flattering to our national type of beauty.”  As Eugene spoke, his lips wore a smile more akin to those of his boyhood than any Beulah had seen since his return from Europe.

“Yes; that was to show the influence of custom, be it remembered; and, in the same connection, he remarks, honestly enough, that he ’hardly knows what a Grecian face is; but thinks it very probable that if the elegant arts had been transmitted to us from the Chinese, instead of the Greeks, that singular piece of deformity—­a Chinese nose—­would have been held in high estimation.’  It was merely association.”

“Which I don’t believe a word of!” cried Beulah, appropriating the last as a lunge at her favorite absolutism.  Rising, she placed her drawings in the portfolio, for the sun had crept round the corner of the gallery and was shining in her face.

Mr. Lindsay smiled, without replying, and gave his arm to assist Eugene into the house.  They were comfortably seated in the dining room, and Beulah knew that the discussion was about to be renewed, when a carriage dashed up to the door.  Eugene turned pale, and a sudden rigidity seized his features.  Beulah gave her guest a quick, meaning glance, and retreated to the gallery, whither he instantly followed her, leaving Eugene to receive his wife without witnesses.  Leaning against one of the pillars, Beulah unfastened a wreath of blue convolvulus which Mrs. Williams had twined in her hair an hour before.  The delicate petals were withered, and, with a suppressed sigh, she threw them away.  Mr. Lindsay drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her, saying briefly: