, understood it,
adored it, mourned it. Such women are shallow, not for want of a
head upon their shoulders, but of ATTENTION. They do not really
study anything: they have been taught at their schools the bad art of
skimming; but let their hearts compel their brains to think and think,
the result is considerable. The deepest philosopher never fathomed a
character more thoroughly than this poor child fathomed her philosopher,
when she had read his journal ten or eleven times, and bedewed it with a
thousand tears.

One passage almost cut her more intelligent heart in twain:--

"This dark day I have done a thing incredible. I have spoken with brutal
harshness to the innocent creature I have sworn to protect. She had run
in debt, through inexperience, and that unhappy timidity which makes
women conceal an error till it ramifies, by concealment, into a fault;
and I must storm and rave at her, till she actually fainted away. Brute!
Ruffian! Monster! And she, how did she punish me, poor lamb? By soft
and tender words--like a lady, as she is. Oh, my sweet Rosa, I wish you
could know how you are avenged. Talk of the scourge--the cat! I would be
thankful for two dozen lashes. Ah! there is no need, I think, to punish
a man who has been cruel to a woman. Let him alone. He will punish
himself more than you can, if he is really a man."

From the date of that entry, this self-reproach and self-torture kept
cropping up every now and then in the diary; and it appeared to have
been not entirely without its influence in sending Staines to sea,
though the main reason he gave was that his Rosa might have the comforts
and luxuries she had enjoyed before she married him.

One day, while she was crying over this diary, Uncle Philip called; but
not to comfort her, I promise you. He burst on her, irate, to take her
to task. He had returned, learned Christopher's departure, and settled
the reason in his own mind: that uxorious fool was gone to sea by a
natural reaction; his eyes were open to his wife at last, and he was
sick of her folly; so he had fled to distant climes, as who would not,
that could?

"SO, ma'am," said he, "my nephew is gone to sea, I find--all in a hurry.
Pray may I ask what he has done that for?"

It was a very simple question, yet it did not elicit a very plain
answer. She only stared at this abrupt inquisitor, and then cried,
piteously, "Oh, Uncle Philip!" and burst out sobbing.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"You WI