“Why so?”

“In the name of sense, Walter, what are you going to marry his daughter for.”

“Because I love her.”

“Pah!  I know how much of that sort of thing appertains to the business.”

“Charles!”

“Don’t look so utterly dumfounded, friend Walter.”

“I am surprised, and I must say pained, to hear you speak thus.  Surely you love the young lady you propose to marry?”

“Of course.  But then I have a decent regard for her old father’s wealth; and I am by no means insensible to her personal attractions.  I group all that is desirable into one grand consideration—­beauty, wealth, standing, mental endowments, etc.,—­and take her for the whole.  But for love—­a mere impulse that will die of itself, if left alone,—­to marry a young lady!  O no,—­I am not the simpleton for that!”

Walter Gray looked his friend in the face for a moment or two, but did not reply.  He was pained, even shocked at his levity.

“You seem really to doubt my being in earnest?” said Wilton, after a pause.

“I would doubt, if I could, Charles.  But I fear you are speaking out too truly, sentiments that I could not have believed you capable of entertaining.”

“You are too simple and unsophisticated to live in this world, my old friend Walter Gray.”

“And long may I remain so,” was the calm response, “if to be honest and sincere is to be simple and unsophisticated.”

“Well, good morning to you, and success to your love marriage.”

And so saying, Charles Wilton left the office of his friend.

A few weeks more passed away, and the two young men had, in the meantime, consummated their matrimonial engagements.  The wedding of Charles Wilton and Cara Linton was a splendid affair, succeeded by parties and entertainments for five or six weeks.  That of Walter Gray and Jane Emory passed off more quietly and rationally.

Three months after their wedding-day, let us look in upon the two friends and their fair partners; and first, upon Charles Wilton and his bride.  The time is evening, and they are sitting alone in one of their richly furnished parlors.

“O dear!” yawned out Wilton, rising and walking backwards and forwards, “this is dull work.  Is there no place where we can go and spend a pleasant evening?”

“I don’t know, dear.  Suppose we step over and see Pa?”

“O no.  We were there two or three evenings ago.  And, any how, I am in no humor for playing at draughts.”

“Well, I should like to go there this evening.  I want to see Ma about something.”

“You can easily go to-morrow, Cara, and stay as long as you choose.”

“But I should like to go to night, dear.”

“Don’t think of it, Cara.”

“Then suppose we call in and sit an hour with the Melton’s?”

“Not to-night, Cara.  The old man is deaf, and talks you out of all patience about sugars and teas cotton and tobacco.”