ing to weary out Miss Martindale's patience, or
that some chance might reveal their presence to Violet; but in vain;
Theodora's politeness was exemplary, and she endured Mrs. Albert Moss's
familiarity so well, that when at length they departed, the last words
were a parting whisper, 'Good morning, Miss Martindale. If we had known
what we interrupted--but ah! I have gone through those things so lately,
that I know how to feel for you, and can keep your secret.'

'There is no subject of secrecy that I know of,' said Theodora, more
coldly than ever.

Hateful woman! Poor Violet! There, now, it will be all over the country
that I am engaged to him! I must take him now, or I hope he will give it
up on discovering my connections! Then I can despise him. Foolish man!
why could he not say what he wanted? I should have got rid of him then;
I was in the mood! However, he is out of the way for the present. Now to
make the best of it with Violet.

Violet was grieved, both for her own sake and the vexation at home, but
she so sweetly acquiesced in its having been right, and was so sure that
her sister meant nothing but kindness, that Theodora, knowing that she
herself could not have submitted with anything like patience, admired
and loved her more than ever.

The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a refreshment to
Theodora's tossed and undecided mind; and in administering to her
comfort and pleasure, the anxieties and remorse subsided into a
calm like her own. How delightful was the day of her introduction to
Johnnie's portrait; her admiration, and tearful gratitude to the kind
deviser of the gift, were the greatest pleasure Theodora had known for
months; the discussion of every feature, the comparison of Johnnie
with it, the history of the difficulties, and of his papa's assistance,
seemed a never-ending treat to both giver and receiver. The poem, too;
it was very amusing to see how she could hardly believe that original
verses could possibly be written on her boy, and then when set to guess
whose they were, she began with a hesitating 'Miss Marstone is the only
person near who makes verses, and these are too pretty to be hers.'

'Ah! if you would follow Emma's advice, and call the baby Osyth, after
the first Prioress, you might have a chance from that quarter.'

It could not be Mr. Fotheringham, the only poet she could think of, and
she could only beg to be told.

'There is one whom a Wrangerton woman should not