It was late on that same night,--very late. The villa was all quiet and noiseless as Mrs. Morris sat at her writing-table, engaged in a very long letter. The epistle does not in any way enter into our story. It was to her father, in reply to one she had just received from him, and solely referred to little family details with which our reader can have no interest, save in a passing reference to a character already before him, and of whom she thus wrote:--

"And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, Mr.

Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is the more profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to make five hundred pounds out of mine! Nor can I sufficiently admire the tact with which you rescued even so much from such a wreck! I esteem your cleverness the more, since--shall I confess it, dear papa?--I thought that the man of acids and alkalies would turn out to be the rogue and you the dupe! Let me hasten, therefore, to make the _amende honorable_, and compliment you on your new character of chemist.

"In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of his company, you showed an admirable wisdom; and you very justly observe, these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save the trouble of hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable principles might have sufficed. Far better was the method you selected, while, by making _him_ out to be mad, you make _yourself_ out to be benevolent.

You have caught, besides, a very popular turn of the public mind at a lucky conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just now for shutting up one's mother-in-law, or one's wife, or any other disagreeable domestic ingredient, on the plea of insanity; and a very clever physician, with what is called 'an ingenious turn of mind,' will find either madness or arsenic in any given substance. You will, however, do wisely to come abroad, for the day will come of a reaction, and 'the lock-up' system will be converted into the 'let-loose,' and a sort of doomsday arrive when one will be confronted with very unwelcome acquaintances."

As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her door whispered, "May I come in, dearest?"

"Oh, darling, is it you?" cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a sheet of paper over her half-written epistle. "I was just writing about you. My sweet May, I have a dear old godmother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of those who love _me_; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write about those who are happy."

"And you call me one of them, do you?" said the girl, with a deep sigh.

"I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness than any I have ever known. You are very beautiful,--nay, no blushing, it is a woman says it; so handsome, May, that it is downright shame of Fortune to have made you rich too. You should have been left to your beauty, as other people are left to their great connections, or their talents, or their Three per Cents; and then you are surrounded by those who love you, May,--a very commendable thing in a world which has its share of disagreeable people; and, lastly, to enjoy all these fair gifts, you have got youth."

"I shall be nineteen on the fourth of next month, Lucy," said the other, gravely; "and it was just about that very circumstance that I came to speak to you."

Mrs. Morris knew thoroughly well what the speech portended, but she looked all innocence and inquiry.

"You are aware, Lucy, what my coming of age brings with it?" said the girl, half pettishly.

"That you become a great millionnaire, dearest,--a sort of female Rothschild, with funds and stocks in every land of the earth."

"I was not speaking of money. I was alluding to the necessity of deciding as to my own fate in life. I told you that by my father's will I am bound to declare that I accept or reject Charles Heathcote within six months after my coming of age."

"I do not, I confess, see anything very trying in that, May. I conclude that you know enough of your own mind to say whether you like him or not. You are not strangers to each other. You have been domesticated together--"

"That 's the very difficulty," broke in May. "There has been intimacy between us, but nothing like affection,--familiarity enough, but no fondness."

"Perhaps that's not so bad a feature as you deem it," said the other, dryly. "Such a tame, table-land prospect before marriage may all the better prepare you for the dull uniformity of wedded life."

May gave a slight sigh, and was silent, while the other continued,--

"Being very rich, dearest, is, of course, a great resource, for you can, by the mere indulgence of your daily caprices, give yourself a sort of occupation, and a kind of interest in life."

May sighed again, and more heavily.

"I know this is not what one dreams of, my dear May," resumed she, "and I can well imagine how reluctant you are to seek happiness in toy terriers or diamond earrings; but remember what I told you once before was the great lesson the world taught us, that every joy we compass in this life is paid for dearly, in some shape or other, and that the system is one great scheme of compensations, the only wisdom being, to be sure you have got at last what you have paid for."

"I remember your having said that," said May, thoughtfully.

"Yes; it was in correction of a great mistake you had made, May, when you were deploring the fate of some one who had contracted an unequal marriage. It was then that I ventured to tell you that what the world calls a misalliance is the one sure throw for a happy union."

"But you did n't convince me!" said May, hastily.

"Possibly not. I could not expect you to look on life from the same sad eminence I have climbed to; still I think you understood me when I showed you that as air and sunlight are blessings which we enjoy without an effort, so affection, gained without sacrifice, elicits no high sense of self-esteem,--none of that self-love which is but the reflex of real love."

"Charles would, then, according to your theory, be eminently happy in marrying me, for, to all appearance, the sacrifice would be considerable," said May, with a half-bitter laugh.

"_My_ theory only applies to _us_ dear May; as for men, they marry from a variety of motives, all prompted by some one or other feature of their selfishness: this one for fortune, that for family influence, the other because he wants a home, and so on."

"And not for love at all?" broke in May.

"Alas! dearest, the man who affords himself the pleasure of being in love is almost always unable to indulge in any other luxury. It is your tutor creature, there, like Layton, falls in love!"

May smiled, and turned away her head; but the crimson flush of her cheek soon spread over her neck, and Mrs. Morris saw it.

"Yes," resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, "love is the one sole dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it runs through the dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, like a single gold thread glittering here and there at long intervals, and it gives them those dreamy fits of imaginative bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully ascribe to some intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate forgets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking of some moss-rose he had plucked long ago!"

"Do you believe that, Loo?" asked the girl, eagerly.

"I know it, dear; and what's more, it is these very men are the best of husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. The perfume of an early love keeps the heart pure for many a long year after. Let us take Layton, for instance."

"But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?"

"Not much, certainly; but enough to illustrate our meaning. It is quite clear he is desperately in love."

"With whom, pray?" Asked May. And her face became crimson as she spoke.

"With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing," said Mrs.

Morris, calmly; and continued: "At first sight it does seem a very cruel thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode he 'll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet melancholy in that village story; men will never know whence they found their way into the curate's heart. How little aware are they that there's a corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier thoughts,--a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!"

May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a sob.

"So that," resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, "you can forgive yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you are to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord of one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that, my sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for, against every check you send your banker, the cashier's book will retain the record."

"You only confuse me with all this," said May, pettishly. "I came for counsel."

"And I have given you more,--I have given you consolation. I wish any one would be as generous with _me!_"

"Oh, you are not angry with me!" cried the girl, earnestly.

"Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger, but it is of _you_, not of _me_, I would speak; tell me everything. Has Charles spoken to you?"

"Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself."

"Nay, scarcely that," said the other, thoughtfully.

"Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to _me_,"

said she, flushing deeply.

"And Mr. Layton,--is _he_ possessed of the same calm philosophy? Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?" said Mrs. Morris, who, apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a passing glance at the other's face.

"How can you ask such a question? What is _he_ to _me_, or _I_ to _him?_ If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered that the difference of station between us presents an insurmountable objection."

"As if Love asked for anything better," cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly.

"Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just the way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,"

said she, passing her arm affectionately round her waist; "confess honestly that he told you as much."