it. I asked him if he were not ashamed to do so, and you said, 'Hush,
Arthur, he feels bad; if you felt as sorry as he does, you would behave
just in the same way.' So, the fact is, last summer you saw he _felt bad_,
and your tender heart inundated with sympathy."

"That was it," said Mrs. Weston; "it was a complete inundation."

"You are not in love with him now, are you, Alice?" said Arthur, smiling.

"No, indeed," said Alice, "I am not in love with him, or you either--if
being in love is what it is described in novels. I never have palpitation
of the heart, never faint away, and am not at all fond of poetry. I should
make a sad heroine, I am such a matter-of-fact person."

"So as you make a good wife," said Arthur, "no matter about being a
heroine."

"A planter's wife has little occasion for romance," said Mrs. Weston; "her
duties are too many and too important. She must care for the health and
comfort of her family, and of her servants. After all, a hundred servants
are like so many children to look after."

"Ellen would make an elegant heroine," said Alice. "She was left an orphan
when very young; had an exacting uncle and aunt; was the belle of the
metropolis; had gay and gallant lovers; is an heiress--and has fallen in
love with a man she never saw. To crown all, he is not rich, so Ellen can
give him her large fortune to show her devotion, and they can go all over
the world together, and revel in romance and novelty."

"Well," said Arthur, "I will take you all over the world if you wish it.
When will you set out, and how will you travel? If that is all you complain
of in your destiny, I can easily change it."

"I do not complain of my destiny," said Alice, gaily. "I was only
contrasting it with Ellen's. I shall be satisfied never to leave Exeter,
and my migrations need not be more extended than were Mrs. Primroses's,
'from the green room to the brown.' Poor Walter! I wish he would fall in
love with some beautiful Italian, and be as happy as we are."

"Do not fear for Walter," said Mrs. Weston. "He will take care of himself;
his last letter to Cousin Janet was very cheerful. I shall have to diminish
your vanity, Alice, by telling you Walter will never 'die for love of Alice
Weston.' He will be captivated some day with a more dashy lady, if not an
Italian countess. I have no doubt he will eventually become a resident of
Europe. A life of repentance will not be too much for a man whose hands are
stained with