that I only require discreetness."

Discreetness, therefore, was instructed to reign at the Abbey. Under
Adrian's able tuition the fairest of its domestics acquired that virtue.

Discreetness, too, was enjoined to the upper household. Sir Austin, who
had not previously appeared to notice the case of Lobourne's hopeless
curate, now desired Mrs. Doria to interdict, or at least discourage, his
visits, for the appearance of the man was that of an embodied sigh and
groan.

"Really, Austin!" said Mrs. Doria, astonished to find her brother more
awake than she had supposed, "I have never allowed him to hope."

"Let him see it, then," replied the baronet; "let him see it."

"The man amuses me," said Mrs. Doria. "You know, we have few amusements
here, we inferior creatures. I confess I should like a barrel-organ
better; that reminds one of town and the opera; and besides, it plays
more than one tune. However, since you think my society bad for him, let
him stop away."

With the self-devotion of a woman she grew patient and sweet the moment
her daughter Clare was spoken of, and the business of her life in view.
Mrs. Doria's maternal heart had betrothed the two cousins, Richard and
Clare; had already beheld them espoused and fruitful. For this she
yielded the pleasures of town; for this she immured herself at Raynham;
for this she bore with a thousand follies, exactions, inconveniences,
things abhorrent to her, and heaven knows what forms of torture and
self-denial, which are smilingly endured by that greatest of voluntary
martyrs--a mother with a daughter to marry. Mrs. Doria, an amiable widow,
had surely married but for her daughter Clare. The lady's hair no woman
could possess without feeling it her pride. It was the daily theme of her
lady's-maid,--a natural aureole to her head. She was gay, witty, still
physically youthful enough to claim a destiny; and she sacrificed it to
accomplish her daughter's! sacrificed, as with heroic scissors, hair,
wit, gaiety--let us not attempt to enumerate how much! more than may be
said. And she was only one of thousands; thousands who have no portion of
the hero's reward; for he may reckon on applause, and condolence, and
sympathy, and honour; they, poor slaves! must look for nothing but the
opposition of their own sex and the sneers of ours. O, Sir Austin! had
you not been so blinded, what an Aphorism might have sprung from this
point of observation! Mrs. Doria was coolly told, between s