y that there oughtn't to _be_ any battle
of life. Maxwell has the defects of his disadvantages--I see that. He's
often bitter, and cynical, and cruel because he has had to fight for his
bread. He isn't Louise's social equal; I quite agree with you there,
mother; and if she wants to live for society, he would be always in
danger of wounding her by his inferiority to other people of her sort.
I'm sorry for Maxwell, but I don't pity him, especially. He bears the
penalty of his misfortunes; but he is strong enough to bear it. Let him
stand it! But there are others--weaker, unhappier--Mother! You haven't
asked me yet about--the Northwicks." Matt stopped in front of her chair,
and looked down into her lifted face, where the satisfaction his
acquiescence in her views concerning Louise was scarcely marred by her
perception that he had not changed his mind at all on other points. She
was used to his way of thinking, and she gratefully resolved to be more
and more patient with it, and give him time for the change that was sure
to come. She interpreted the look of stormy wistfulness he wore as an
expression of his perplexity in the presence of the contradictory facts
and theories.

"No," she said, "I expected to do that. You know I've seen them so very
lately, and with this about Louise on my mind--How are they? That poor
Adeline--I'm afraid it's killing her. Were you able to do anything for
them?"

"Ah, I don't know," the young man sighed. "They have to suffer for their
misfortunes, too."

"It seems to be the order of Providence," said Mrs. Hilary, with the
resignation of the philosophical spectator.

"No!" Matt protested. "It's the disorder of improvidence. There's
nothing of the Divine will in consequences so unjust and oppressive.
Those women are perfectly innocent; they've only wished to do right, and
tried to do it; but they're under a ban the same as if they had shared
their father's guilt. They have no friends--"

"Well, Matt," said his mother, with dignity, "I think you can hardly say
that. I'm sure that as far as we are concerned, we have nothing to
reproach ourselves with. I think we've gone to the extreme to show our
good-will. How much further do you want us to go? Come; I don't like
your saying this!"

"I beg your pardon. I certainly don't blame you, or Louise, or father. I
blame myself--for cowardice--for--for unworthiness in being afraid to
say--to tell you--Mother," he burst out suddenly, after a halt, "I'v