eople are always asking _me_ for it.
If I can't tell who Isaac's father was, Mary says, 'O Carry, where's
your common sense?' If I am going out of doors, Eliza runs up, 'Carry,'
she cries, 'you haven't common sense; your shawl's all pinned awry.' And
when I ask mamma the shortest way across the fields to Dalton, she says,
'Use your common sense, my dear.'"

"No wonder you have so little of it, poor dear child," said Charles; "no
bank could stand such a run."

"No such thing," said Mary; "it flows into her bank ten times as fast as
it comes out. She has plenty of it from us; and what she does with it no
one can make out; she either hoards or she speculates."

"'Like the great ocean,'" said Charles, "'which receives the rivers, yet
is not full.'"

"That's somewhere in Scripture," said Eliza.

"In the 'Preacher,'" said Charles, and he continued the quotation; "'All
things are full of labour, man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied
with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.'"

His mother sighed; "Take my cup, my love," she said; "no more."

"I know why Charles is so fond of the 'Preacher,'" said Mary; "it's
because he's tired of reading; 'much study is a weariness to the flesh.'
I wish we could help you, dear Charles."

"My dear boy, I really think you read too much," said his mother; "only
think how many hours you have been at it to-day. You are always up one
or two hours before the sun; and I don't think you have had your walk
to-day."

"It's so dismal walking alone, my dear mother; and as to walking with
you and my sisters, it's pleasant enough, but no exercise."

"But, Charlie," said Mary, "that's absurd of you; these nice sunny days,
which you could not expect at this season, are just the time for long
walks. Why don't you resolve to make straight for the plantations, or
to mount Hart Hill, or go right through Dun Wood and back?"

"Because all woods are dun and dingy just now, Mary, and not green. It's
quite melancholy to see them."

"Just the finest time of the year," said his mother; "it's universally
allowed; all painters say that the autumn is the season to see a
landscape in."

"All gold and russet," said Mary.

"It makes me melancholy," said Charles.

"What! the beautiful autumn make you melancholy?" asked his mother.

"Oh, my dear mother, you mean to say that I am paradoxical again; I
cannot help it. I like spring; but autumn saddens me."

"Charles always says so," said Mary; "he th