te confidence; or
rather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate
everything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you
would say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were,
precious little you would get from me."

"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the
reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your
admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady
who has the reputation of caprice,--a flirt, as the world is apt to call
her,--though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract
the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit
for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for
everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself
have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and
worthiest men."

"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.

"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not
be a good sister otherwise."

"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for
Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly,
I am sure."

"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this
new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient
interest in him?"

"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him
better?"

"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman
to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have
become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."

"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not
necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be
distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the
beginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and
if to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can."

"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for
yourself."

Marcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her
sister-in-law soon after went to her own room.

During all this conversation, Mrs. Sandford was struck by the tone which
the beautiful coquette assumed. Her words were aptly chosen, her
sentences smoothly constructed; she never hesitated; and there was