tepped so nimbly and lightly, that no
harm came to her. I wish, my dear Mac, you could hear her conversation.
From morning till night she prattles away, hopping, skipping, and
jumping from one subject to another, and saying something sensible or
droll on each. You must know that Carrie has an immense fund of humour.
Her imitations of people make me almost die with laughter. You remember
Mrs. Calfsfoot's habit of twitching her nose and twirling her thumbs
when she is beginning an anecdote about somebody one never saw, and
never cared to see. Well, Carrie stopped in the middle of our rambles in
the forest, and imitated her squeaky voice and absurd gestures to the
life. The anecdote, concocted impromptu, was a wonderfully sustained bit
of pure invention. On my honour, when she had finished her little
performance, I could not help giving her a kiss for it.

"You will smile, my dear Mac, at this: remembering the horror we
mutually expressed one night at Ardbye's chambers, of female mimics. But
there is a difference, which we do not appear to have recognised on that
occasion, between good-natured and ill-natured mimicry. Now nothing can
be more harmless fun than my Carrie's imitations. She never has the bad
taste to mimic a deformity, or to burlesque a misfortune. She certainly
said of Mrs. Blomonge (who is known to be the stoutest person in the
parish of St. Bride's) that her head floated on her shoulders like a
waterlily on a pond; but then the joke was irresistible, and there was
not a touch of malice in the way the thing was said. How much there is
in manner!

"Carrie is beginning to yearn for the repose of Arcady Cottage. She
wants to see herself mistress of a house. She longs to have to order
dinner, inspect the dusting of the drawing-room, pour out tea from our
own tea-pot, and work antimacassars for our chairs. I can see already
that she will make the most perfect little housewife in the world.

"There are dolts and dullards who declare that women who are witty and
accomplished, generally make bad housewives. They are said to lie on
sofas all day through, reading hooks they cannot understand; playing all
kinds of tortuous music; and painting moss roses upon velvet. I am not
an old married man (twenty days old only), but I am ready to wager, from
what I have already seen of my Carrie, that there is not the slightest
ground for those charges against clever women; on the contrary, it seems
to me that your clever woman