“You are wrong, Louisa,” her friend replied, “and I cannot let you rest in that wrong, if it is in my power to correct it.  Perhaps, by relating a circumstance that occurred with myself a few years ago, I may be able to make an impression on your mind.  I had, and still have, an esteemed friend, amiable and sincere, but extremely sensitive.  She is too apt to make mistakes about other people’s estimation of her, which, I often told her, is a decided fault of character.  That she has only to be self-conscious of integrity, and then she will be truly estimated.  Well, this friend would sometimes imagine that I treated her coolly, or indifferently, or thrust at her feelings, when I felt towards her all the while a very warm affection.  The consequence would be, that she would assume a cold or offended exterior.  But I never said to myself, ’Let her pout it out.’  I knew that she was mistaken, and that she was really suffering under her mistake; and I would always go to her, and kindly inquire the cause of her changed manner.  The result was, of course, an immediate restoration of good feeling, often accompanied by a confession of regret at having injured me by imagining that I entertained unkind sentiments when I did not.  On one occasion I noticed a kind of reserve in her manner; but thinking there might be some circumstances known only to herself, that gave her trouble, I did not seem to observe it.  On the next morning I was exceedingly pained and surprised to receive a note from her, in something like the following language—­

“The fact is, Mrs. Appleton, I cannot and will not bear any longer your manner towards me.  You seem to think that I have no feelings.  And besides, you assume an air of superiority and patronage that is exceedingly annoying.  Last night your manner was insufferable.  As I have just said, I cannot and will not bear such an assumption on your part.  And now let me say, that I wish, hereafter, to be considered by you as a stranger.  As such I shall treat you.  Do not attempt to answer this, do not attempt to see me, for I wish for no humiliating explanations.’

“Now what would you have done in such a case, Louisa?”

“I would have taken her at her word, of course,” was the prompt reply; “did not you?”

“Oh, no; that would not have been right.”

“I must confess, Mrs. Appleton, that your ideas of right, and mine, are very different.  This lady told you expressly that she did not wish to hold any further intercourse with you.”

“Exactly.  But, then, she would not have said so, had she not been deceived by an erroneous idea.  Knowing this, it became my duty to endeavour to remove the false impression.”

“I must confess, Mrs. Appleton, that I cannot see it in the same light.  I don’t believe that we are called upon to humour the whims of every one.  It does such people, as you speak of, good to be let alone, and have their pout out.  If you notice them, it makes them ten times as bad.”