but still on the whole, it is perhaps for the best.
You were taken from your parents, and were well brought up; you return
to them, and find them many degrees below you in the scale of
refinement, and therefore you cannot respect them. Now, if you had
never left them, you would, of course, have remained down at their
level, and would have respected them, having imbibed the same opinions,
and perceiving nothing wrong in their conduct. Now which of the two
would you prefer, if you had the power to choose?"

"Most certainly to be as I am," replied Caroline, "but I cannot but
grieve that my parents should not have been like my aunt Bathurst."

"I agree with you in that feeling, but what is--is, and we must make the
best of it. You must excuse your parents' faults as much as you can,
since your education will not permit you to be blind to them, and you
must treat them with respect from a sense of duty."

"That I have always done," replied Caroline; "but it too often happens
that I have to decide between the respect I would show to my parents,
and a sense of justice or a love of truth opposed to it--that is the
greatest difficulty."

"Very true," replied I, "and in such cases you must act according to the
dictates of your own conscience."

"Well," replied Caroline, "I think I have done wisely in getting away
altogether. I have seen little of my aunt Bathurst, since you took me
to my father's house; for, although some advances were made towards a
reconciliation, as soon as my aunt was told that my father and mother
had stated that I had been most improperly brought up by her, she was so
angry at the false accusation, that all intercourse is broken off, I
fear, for ever. Oh, how I have longed to be with my aunt again! But
Valerie, I never heard why you left her. Some one did say that you had
gone, but why was not known."

"I went away, Caroline, because I was no longer of any use in the house
after you had been removed, and I did not choose to be an incumbrance to
your aunt. I preferred gaining my livelihood by my own exertions, as I
am now doing, and to which resolution on my part, I am indebted for the
pleasure of our again meeting."

"Ah, Valerie, I never loved you so much as I did after I had lost you,"
said Caroline.

"That is generally the case, my dear," replied I; "but now if you
please, we will try this sonata. We shall have plenty of time for
talking, as we shall meet twice a week."

Caroline play