"Well, Minny, I don't often reflect, you know--but the other day, after I had received a note from Bernard, I sat down and reflected a long time. And it was on this subject. And I came to the conclusion, that all this watching--just raise that bandeau a trifle higher--and spying, for it is nothing else, on the part of mammas and governesses, has a very bad tendency, indeed. Don't you see that it throws a kind of mystery about the men, and, right away, young girls--and it's natural for young girls to be curious--want to find out what there is so very awful about them, and go to work to do it?"

Minny looked up surprised; she had never heard her mistress talk so fast and so long before.

"And then, Minny, see how many very young girls get married to men almost old enough to be their grandfathers, here. Can't you see the reason? It's so that they can be their own mistresses, and say and do what they like. I've had them tell me so after marriage; and then they're almost always sure to begin to flirt a little, and enjoy themselves in this happy way they ought to have been left to do when single; and then their old curmudgeons of husbands get jealous, and angry, and then there are dreadful times! Oh, dear! I think it is a terrible state of society!

"Now, Minny, I'll tell you just how I feel when a gentleman calls here.

There's mamma, and maybe the governess, in the parlor (now I would rather have them there than not, if I didn't know just what they were there for;) well, the governess fixes her eyes on me when I go in, and seems to say, 'Don't forget your Grecian bend;' and mamma looks down at my feet, and seems to say, 'Be sure and turn out your toes'--and the consequence is, I forget both, and feel red all over, and know that I'm acting like a very silly little fool. I sit down, and both pairs of those eyes are on me; and both pairs of those ears are wide open, and I'm as ungraceful as a giraffe; when I know, if left to act naturally, and wasn't watched all the time, I could appear very well. Then a young man here, no matter of how high family he is, or how good or how worthy, if he happens to be ever so poor, and feels as if he'd like to take some young lady to a play or concert, or anything, he's not only got to take her, but two or three duennas to keep himself and her straight; and it's such a tax on him, that if he does it often he's always poor; and then mothers turn up their noses at him, and say he's not eligible, and all that.

"Who could have been more strict, as it is called, with any daughter than Madame Gerot with Louise? Yet see how admirably she turned out!

_Mon Dieu!_ it was frightful! Then there's a dozen other cases I could cite almost like her. I tell you, Minny, young people can't learn each other's characters at all, unless they're alone by themselves a little time. But here, a man must pay his devoirs, and make his proposals, with a third person's eyes upon him all the time; and has almost to court the mother as much as the daughter, if not more. Oh! these things make courting very unpleasant, and marriage sometimes very unhappy, when both should be the happiest seasons of one's life. Ah, me! it's very hard to have mothers always act as if their daughters hadn't judgment enough to be trusted alone a minute."

"Do daughters prove themselves trustworthy always, Miss, when they are left alone?"

"If mothers would make daughters trustworthy, Minny, I tell you they must trust them. Society is not conducted in this manner in the North, yet I believe the young people there are better by far than they are here. But I don't care much about it now. I used to--but I shall be married some day to the man I want, and be happy in my own way.

"There, Minny, does that fold, just arranged, look well? Do I appear quite elegant and pretty now?"

"Quite, Miss."

"What a long lecture I've read you, Minny. I feel quite exhausted, I declare, and quite like going to bed again. Here's Bernard's letter--put it with the rest, and take precious, precious care of it."

Fanning herself languidly, Della moved slowly away towards the breakfast-room. A servant stood waiting to open the door for her, with an obsequious bow, and she stood in the presence of her parents.

"Dear dort!" cried her mother, (making as she thought an affectionate abbreviation of daughter,) "what is the matter that you look so flushed and excited this morning? Your cheeks are really vulgarly red; dear me, I hope they'll pale off a little before evening."

"Good morning, Della," said Mr. Delancey, formally, who even at home sat in his usual position, bolt upright in his chair; "good morning; I'm glad to see that you have acquired a graceful manner of entering a breakfast-room."

"If I keep on improving, papa, you will give me the promised winter in Havana I suppose?"

"I suppose so, my child. I wish to make you very happy."

There was a softness in Mr. Delancey's cold eyes, as he spoke, which one would no sooner have expected to see there, than they would thought to have seen a rock melt. Only his daughter could bring it there.

"Miss Della," said the governess, "your attitude is a trifle too stiff--a little more of the bend, if you please."

Miss Della tipped a little.

"Dort, darling," said Mrs. Delancey, "pray don't display such an appetite--it is really frightful to see you eat so much. A young lady like you should be very delicate at table."

"And pay long visits to the cupboard between meals, eh, mamma?"

Mr. Delancey looked anxiously to note the progress his daughter had made in the viands before her.

"Don't do anything _outre_ in public, Della, no matter what you are obliged to do in private."

"No, papa."

"I want to see you very perfect in all things,--in all things, Della--do you understand?"

"Yes, papa."

"Make it your aim to be everything a young lady can be. Remember you are all the child that's left me now. All my hopes are upon you--try never, never to disappoint me!"

Mr. Delancey rarely spoke so feelingly--it was a rare manner for him, and the effect of his words was very strange. Della's elegantly embroidered kerchief was clasped suddenly to her face, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping.

"Della, how un-self-possessed! you astonish me."

"You shouldn't have made that allusion to her brother," said Mrs.

Delancey, sympathizingly.

"Dry your eyes immediately, Della; I am ready to go," said her father, sternly.

Della choked back her tears, and rising, approached her father, and gracefully put her lips to his forehead, and gave the usual morning kiss.

"No more scenes to-day, Della."

"No, papa."

The door closed, and he was gone.

CHAPTER XI.

"Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer Can serve my turn?

Try what repentance can: what can it not?

Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?"

Hamlet.

When Guly returned to his place that afternoon, Arthur was at his side; and when both raised their eyes to Wilkins' face, as they passed him, he read there an expression of calm tranquillity, such a trustful, happy look of hopefulness, that he could not restrain the cheering smile of encouragement, which came up to his lips in answer.

A great change had taken place in Arthur's face--or rather in its expression. There was no longer the glance of proud defiance in the eye--the flash of wounded pride upon the cheek, or curl of scorn upon the lip. All was subdued and quiet, and seemed to whisper of a peaceful, contrite heart. Still he studiously avoided the eye of Charley Quirk, and also seemed to wish to appear oblivious of the presence of the flint-eyed being sitting stiffly at the high desk.

He could not trust himself to meet the gaze of either, lest the storm of pride and revenge, so lately banished from his breast, should return again in full force,--sweeping away, with its ocean strength, all the great resolves of future good, which he had piled up as a barrier against the door of evil in his heart.

Though his sleep in a degree refreshed him, his head still ached; and throughout his whole frame he experienced that feverish debility and painful soreness ever attendant upon a night of dissipation and exposure.

With a firm heart Arthur filled his place, and performed his duties unshrinkingly, cheered and encouraged by the beaming face of his brother, which ever and anon was turned toward him, with such a look of happy confidence and love, that it could not fail to carry inspiration with it.

Then night came; and after the goods, which during the day had been pulled down, were properly replaced, Guly took his brother's arm, and started out for a walk.

They strolled slowly along toward the Place D'Arms, which then possessed all that natural beauty, in the shape of its green lawns and ancient sycamores, which fashion has since seen fit to regard as an eyesore, and to remove for ever thence.

They were silent; for the mind of each was busily occupied with its own reflections; reflections good and effective in themselves, yet to which neither wished at that moment to give utterance, and no allusion, however distant, was made to the events of the previous day.