“A good act is twice blessed.”  It seemed as if the words were spoken aloud, so distinctly and so suddenly were they presented to the mind of Mr. Edgar.

Ah, if he will only heed that suggestion, made by some pure spirit, brought near to him by the stirring of good affections in his mind!  In it lies the secret of true happiness.  Let him but act therefrom, and the sunshine will never be absent from his pathway.

Engaged at sixteen.

“Mrs. Lee is quite fortunate with her daughters,” remarked a visitor to Mrs. Wyman, whose oldest child, a well grown girl of fifteen, was sitting by.

“Yes; Kate and Harriet went off in good time.  She has only Fanny left.”

“Who is to be married this winter.”

“Fanny?”

“She is engaged to Henry Florence.”

“Indeed!  And she is only just turned of sixteen.  How fortunate, truly!  Some people have their daughters on their hands until they are two or three-and-twenty, when the chances for good matches are very low. I was only sixteen when I was married.”

“Certainly; and then I had rejected two or three young men.  There is nothing like early marriages, depend upon it, Mrs. Clayton.  They always turn out the best.  The most desirable young men take their pick of the youngest girls, and leave the older ones for second-rate claimants.”

“Do you hear that, Anna?” Mrs. Clayton said, laughing, as she turned to Mrs. Wyman’s daughter.  “I hope you will not remain a moment later than your mother did upon the maiden list.”

Anna blushed slightly, but did not reply.  What had been said, however, made its impression on her mind.  She felt that to be engaged early was a matter greatly to be desired.

“My mother was married at sixteen, and here am I fifteen, and without a lover.”  So thought Anna, as she paused over the page of a new novel, some hours after she had listened to the conversation that passed between her mother and Mrs. Clayton, and mused of love and matrimony.

From that time, Anna Wyman was another girl.  The sweet simplicity of manner, the unconscious innocence peculiar to her age, gradually vanished.  Her eye, that was so clear and soft with the light of girlhood’s pleasant fancies, grew earnest and restless, and, at times, intensely bright.  The whole expression of her countenance was new.  It was no longer a placid sky, with scarce a cloud floating in its quiet depths, but changeful as April, with its tears and smiles blending in strange beauty.  Her heart, that had long beat tranquilly, would now bound at a thought, and send the bright crimson to her cheek—­would flutter at the sight of the very individual whom she, a short time before, would meet without a single wave ruffling the surface of her feelings.  The woman had suddenly displaced the girl; a sisterly regard, that pure affection which an innocent maiden’s heart has for all around her had expired on the altar where was kindling up the deep passion called love.  And yet Anna Wyman had not reached her sixteenth year.