“I saw him there last evening—­and he sat conversing with Mary in a way that showed them to be no strangers to each other.”

A long, embarrassed, and painful silence followed this announcement.  At last, Emily got up and went off to her chamber, where she threw herself upon her bed and burst into tears.  After these ceased to flow, and her mind had become, in some degree, tranquillized, her thoughts became busy.  She remembered that Mr. Armand had called, while they were hiding away in fear lest it should be known that they were not on a fashionable visit to some watering place—­how he had rung and rung repeatedly, as if under the idea that they were there, and how his countenance expressed disappointment as she caught a glimpse of it through the closed shutters.  With all this came, also, the idea that he might have discovered that they were at home, and have despised the principle from which they acted, in thus shutting themselves up, and denying all visiters.  This thought was exceedingly painful.  It was evident to her, that it was not their changed circumstances that kept him away—­for had he not visited Mary Jones?

Uncle Joseph came in a few evenings afterwards, and during his visit the following conversation took place.

“Mr. Armand visits Mary Jones, I am told,” Adeline remarked, as an opportunity for saying so occurred.

“He does?  Well, she is a good girl—­one in a thousand,” replied Uncle Joseph.

“She is only a watchmaker’s daughter,” said Emily, with an ill-concealed sneer.

“And you are only a merchant’s daughter.  Pray, what is the difference?”

“Why, a good deal of difference!”

“Well state it.”

“Mr. Jones is nothing but a mechanic.”

“Well?”

“Who thinks of associating with mechanics?”

“There may be some who refuse to do so; but upon what grounds do they assume a superiority?”

“Because they are really above them.”

“But in what respect?”

“They are better and more esteemed in society.”

“As to their being better, that is only an assumption.  But I see I must bring the matter right home.  Would you be really any worse, were your father a mechanic?”

“The question is not a fair one.  You suppose an impossible case.”

“Not so impossible as you might imagine.  You are the daughter of a mechanic.”

“Brother, why will you talk so?  I am out of all patience with you!” said Mrs. Ludlow, angrily.

“And yet, no one knows better than you, that I speak only the truth.  No one knows better than you, that Mr. Ludlow served many years at the trade of a shoemaker.  And that, consequently, these high-minded young ladies, who sneer at mechanics, are themselves a shoemaker’s daughters—­a fact that is just as well known abroad as anything else relating to the family.  And now, Misses Emily and Adeline, I hope you will hereafter find it in your hearts to be a little more tolerant of mechanics daughters.”