"I'm sure," said Sylvia Formby, rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair, about an hour after Minnie's return, "I don't know what can be done with this girl; she certainly is a dreadful cause of anxiety to all, and especially to poor me!" She was one of those who delighted in being miserable. One would really have imagined, from her manner and conversation about her, that Minnie was one of the very worst girls in existence—an unruly, impossible-to-govern creature. Aunt Sylvia was in her own room; and opposite to her, shaking her head in sorrowing sympathy, perched on the edge of a chair, sat Mrs. Gillett.

"Young ladies is a dreadful responsibility," ejaculated the latter guardedly, (it was safe speaking in general terms;) "all ar'n't as you was, Miss Sylvia!"

"I'm sure I don't know what is to be done with my niece," continued the other, unnoticing the compliment. "I feel some harm will happen to her, if she be not married out of the way. What with your master's obstinacy, and Miss Dorcas's dulness of comprehension, the girl will assuredly be lost unless I exert myself."

"In coorse, Miss," ventured the listener.

"She never will marry the squire; that she positively asserts, and her manner proves it. Then, Mr. Skaife—what is he? Only a poor curate, who has just bread enough for himself, and nothing to spare; and she don't like him. Now, Mr. Dalby has the whole patronage of the neighbourhood, except Mr. Burton's, and he's a very charming man: what more can she desire?"

"And he'll have Squire Burton's business again, Miss; that's for sartain, for they were seen walking together yesterday."

"I don't exactly know how he lost it," said Sylvia. "Do you?"

"All along of Miss Minnie," was the response. "Mr. Dalby, when the old squire died, Mr. Tremenhere, conducted the business for Mr. Burton; indeed he had known the facts long before, they say—that is, the servants say; howsomdever, since they both have been coming a-coortin' Miss, they haven't been such friends. But I'll tell you what I think, Miss Sylvia," here the sybil lowered her voice to a whisper—"and mind I'm seldom wrong, and I wouldn't say this to any one but yourself—I believe, if Miss isn't looked after, just for contrariness sake, if he stays hereabouts, she'll get a-coortin' with that young Mr. Tremenhere!"

"An illegitimate child!" shrieked the virtuous Sylvia, in horror.

"Yes, Miss Sylvia, with him; and, as you say, it's dreadful, for he hasn't a name in the world to call his own, except Miles, and what sort of a cognation, as master calls it, is that for her to marry? He hasn't his father's nor his mother's; he's a outlaw, and any one that pleased might shoot him like a dog, I hear."

Sylvia had only heard a portion of this sentence, the prophecy about Miles and Minnie. She had extraordinary faith in the worldly perceptiveness of Mrs. Gillett. She anxiously inquired the foundation for the other's suspicion; but the good generalship of the matron forbade any undue confidence respecting her reasons, merely contenting herself with alarming her listener to the fullest extent of her powers, by persisting in her belief, as arising principally, she laid a stress on this word, thereby implying that she held back more cogent articles for her belief, from the fact of Miss Minnie's own statement, that she had been walking with this Miles Tremenhere, for to no one would this very politic woman confess, that she had recognised him herself at a glance. Mrs. Gillett was a very cautious person indeed, one of those whose opinions would never choke them from a too hasty formation of them, nor her words leave a bitterness in her mouth from an inconsiderate utterance of them. She was a perfect reflector, throwing her light upon others, and not suffering thereby herself. Minnie had a sorry day of it; first, Sylvia had lectured her, then Juvenal, and lastly, Dorcas commenced questioning, but this latter did it, as she ever acted with her beloved niece, in kindness. As for the others, they would fain have bent her to their separate wills; but Minnie had learned to judge for herself coolly and dispassionately, else where would she have been, occurring as it did, that all three had fixed upon a different object for her husband? To Dorcas she was all affection, rendering full justice to that aunt's interest in her, and correct judgment; but it so happens that in affairs of the heart, our very dearest and best friends are too frequently incapable of judging what would be most conducive to our real happiness, though, in a mere worldly point of view, they may be right. A little counsel, a little guidance, and much sincere interest in our welfare, are the best methods after all; certainly not coercion, that makes us infallibly look with premature dislike on the one for whom we are persecuted.

"I do wonder, dear aunt," said Minnie to the one she loved so well, "why you are so anxious to make me marry, never having done so yourself—how is it?"

The truth never crossed Minnie's mind. Dorcas looked down, and a pale blush of something resembling shame crossed her cheek; then she looked up with candour and affection. "My dear child," she said, "Sylvia would not perhaps like my telling the exact truth, which is this, that in fact no one ever asked either of us!"

"Is it possible!" exclaimed her niece, amazed beyond measure. How could she, worried as she was by an excess of suitors, guess the extraordinary position of a woman who never had one? and aunt Dorcas had been assuredly pretty, and still was very comely. "My dear aunt," she cried again, after a silence of thought on both sides. "It must have been your own fault. Oh! pray, endeavour to induce Sylvia to seek a husband for herself, and leave me alone; or do make her busy herself for uncle, and then you and I shall be at peace. I shouldn't like you to marry. I'm very selfish, dear aunt; but I should be so much afraid of losing your love," and she fondly kissed her cheek.

"I never shall now, dear Minnie; but when you marry, you will love another better than me—I shall only be your aunt, and so it should be."

"Do you know," answered her niece, fixing her sweet eyes upon her, "I often think I never shall marry; I have heard so much about it, that the subject has become quite distasteful to me."

"Oh! you will change your mind, Minnie, when the one you can, and should love, comes."

"What do you mean, aunt, by should love?"

"There are those in the world we ought to guard our affections against; their loss might bring misery."

"Whom are they? would—would, now, supposing an impossible case—would Mr. Tremenhere, if he loved me, be such a one?"

"Why do you think of him, child?" and her aunt looked scrutinizingly in her face.

"Oh, because," answered the blushing Minnie, "he is the first stranger I have met likely to enter into my ideas of such a case: all the constant visitors here have the consent of some one of my relatives,—the mere acquaintances I meet when we go any where, have nothing against them,—I daresay, if I liked one of them, every one of you would, though perhaps reluctantly, say 'yes;' but Mr. Tremenhere—he is different, poor fellow! How I pity him! I do indeed, aunt, and he is so agreeable."

The aunt, unworldly wise as she was, had fallen into a reverie; before she aroused herself to reply, the sound of carriage-wheels without drew her attention to the window. Minnie was the first there,—"Whom have we here? two ladies!" Her aunt was beside her.

"Why Minnie, these are your aunts, Lady Ripley and Dora!" exclaimed she.

"That Dora!" cried her niece, as a tall handsome girl stepped from the carriage; "how altered she is,—I wonder if she will know me?" and though something like a chill had fallen on her heart at sight of her cousin, she sprang across the room to meet her. It was not Dora's beauty which had pained Minnie—she did not know what jealousy was then, certainly, of mere personal charms—but it was the chilling influence of pride which spoke in every movement of her cousin; even in the act of stepping from her carriage, she looked like a priestess of that spirit, following in her footsteps. As she entered the hall, Minnie—simple and beautiful Minnie—stood half abashed before her. Dora's fine eyes were wandering over the group, as she coldly returned the embraces of her aunt Sylvia and Juvenal; at last they rested on Minnie, who had just appeared,—the cold smile warmed, and the cousins were in each other's arms.

"Dear Minnie!" said Dora, "I have longed so much to see you," and she embraced her tenderly.

"I was afraid you would have forgotten me," answered the delighted girl.

"Oh! I never forget those whom I have loved; I often have wished you with me in Italy;" and her fine face, lit up with warmth and sincerity, became perfectly beautiful. The girls sat down side by side, and hand in hand, conversing, after Dora had duly embraced all. Lady Ripley was different to the other members of her family. She appeared more like a composition of all, with a cloak of pride over the whole, in which she completely wrapped herself up; only now and then, when the cloak opened, some of her realities slipped out. She had less of Dorcas than of either of the others,—silly as Juvenal, worldly like Sylvia, and a little bit of Dorcas's good-nature composed the whole. She had married, most unexpectedly, one far above herself in rank and station. Not having had time to familiarize herself with the position before entering upon it, she plunged in, and became for awhile overwhelmed. The country gentleman's daughter forgot the real dignity of the ladylike person, who may pass without comment any where in the rank of countess, so suddenly forced upon her; then, too, the Earl was one of the coldest, proudest men in the world, and lived long enough to engraft a sufficient quantity of the vice of pride (when attached to mere station) upon his only child's really noble nature, for a dozen scions of nobility. Lady Dora's keen perception, as she grew up, readily detected the real from the assumed; and having much loved, respected, and looked up to her father, his vice became a virtue in her eyes,—a natural one; whereas her mother's assumption of it, made her, without becoming undutiful, still look upon her as a merely bad copy; consequently, her aunts and uncle became sharers of her species of contempt. Indeed, she had carried that impression away with her when she quitted them and England, three years before, for Italy; and the knowledge of the world acquired since then, had rather strengthened the feeling. Since that period she had lost her father, and this keenly-felt loss hardened the girl's softer emotions. She seemed incapable of any thing like warmth of affection; for, the first ebullition of joy over on seeing Minnie, whom she really liked better than any person almost in the world, she sat like a beautiful statue, just warmed enough to life to speak and listen;—the face had become colourless again, the smile cold and proud, and the haughty eyes and haughtier brow, seemed to glance or bend with equal indifference on all around her. She was perfect in her beauty as Minnie—one, was the damask rose for richness, the other, the chaste lily; for when Dora's colour rose, nothing could surpass that ripe sunset glow,—it was magnificent from its eastern brightness and depth; whereas Minnie's never became more than a beautiful blush, flitting and returning like a swallow over a wave. Dora's hair was the very darkest chestnut, yet this it was, a colour seldom seen, nothing resembling black nor brown, but the exact colour of the nut itself, rich and mellow. Her eyes—there was her charm of face, they were so dark and lustrous—velvet eyes, with the sun shining on them; extravagant, too, for they expended their glances right and left on all, not from a desire to slay her thousands, but, like the donation of the rich and proud to the beggar, she flung her gold away, not caring who might gather it up; it was flung from an inexhaustible source of wealth—it was the natural love of expenditure, inherent in the generous mind giving of its profusion. No one had ever seen her move quickly, scarcely even as a child; when she rose from her seat, she seemed to rise by some quiet galvanism, majestically, gracefully, but without energy or effort; so it was with all; grace presided over all—cold natural grace. Where her mother used violent force to seem dignified, and often thus destroyed the lady, Dora without a thought, so to seem, was an empress in majesty. Minnie was slight and girlish, her cousin matured in form, though not too much so for her height and bearing, with a waist the hand might almost have circled; one curl on either side of her oval face fell quite to that slender waist in unrestrained perfection, heavy and glossy, veiling, but not concealing the beautiful, but strongly marked eyebrow.

The cousins escaped as soon as possible to Minnie's room; there is a natural restraint ever felt by the least checked before their elders—girls have a language apart of their own. Alas! for the wintry day, when the falling snow of worldly care chills the ideality of thought, and brings to the lip only the sterner realities of life. The two sat and talked of old days, even to them. Dora spoke of Italy, of her father's death soon after she and Minnie parted, and the proud eyes forgot their pride when nature bade them weep—how Minnie loved her then! there was so much softness in her nature. She folded her gentle arms round Dora, and soothed her so lovingly, that the eyes looked up upon her in gratitude and affection. Then, to divert her attention, Minnie told her all her troubles—squire, parson, and lawyer; but she did not breathe the name of Miles Tremenhere. He had so completely won upon her sympathy, that she dreaded to hear Dora speak of him, either in contempt, or else mere worldly policy; so they sat and talked, until Lady Ripley summoned her daughter, by the voice of a French maid, "to dress for dinner."

"I am sure," whispered Aunt Sylvia to Mrs. Gillett on the stairs, when she was retiring to bed that night, "I and Lady Ripley shall not agree long, if she prolongs her stay; for 'tis quite absurd, Gillett, the idea of her dressing in such a style for our quiet dinner, only ourselves, and her annoyance because my niece, Lady Dora, refused to do the same! It is putting notions of dress into Miss Minnie's head, which will make her look down on every one here. I shall tell her so to-morrow; I always like to give my candid opinion, though she mightn't like it!"

"So I would, Miss," answered her agreeing listener. "For no one can be a better judge of every thing than yourself; for I'm sure, as I say to every body, 'just look at our Miss Sylvia, why, she's like a busy bee! she's a pattern—that she is!'"

Mrs. Gillett walked down the corridor, and, coming from her daughter's room, she met Lady Ripley.

"Ah, Gillett!" said that lady, patronisingly; "I'm glad to see you looking so well."

Gillett curtsied to the ground. "I'm sure, my lady," she replied, "it's only the reflections of your ladyship's presence which make me look so; for, as I've just been saying below, it is a pleasure to see a lady look as you do, younger by years than you were, years ago, and know too, what's due to herself, and dress every day as if she was going to court! Ah! it's a pity the dear ladies, Miss Sylvia and Miss Dorcas, is so plain in their ways; it's quite spoiling sweet Miss Minnie, who cares no more for dress or state than if she had been born, if I may be so bold as to say it of your ladyship's niece, in a poor cottage of a mother always knitting woolly stockings!"

"I must see what's to be done, Gillett," answered her ladyship in a queenly tone; "I will have some serious conversation with my brother about her to-morrow."

"If your ladyship will please not to say I said any thing," whispered the politic housekeeper.

"I never quote other's opinions, my good woman," was the haughty reply, as she sailed into her room, with a majestic "Good-night to you."

"To think," soliloquized Gillett, as she toiled up a second flight of stairs, "she should be so amazing proud now, when I remember her setting herself off to the best advantage to attract the notice of our passan then, the late recumbent!" There in an hour in every one's life, when he or she is candid and natural; generally it falls between locking the bedroom door at night, and snuffing out the candle—'tis an hour of thoughtful soliloquy!