ladies about Highcombe."

Mrs. Warrender gave forth a little sigh. "In a country neighbourhood we
swamp everything," she said; "it is a pity. Too many people of one class
are always monotonous: but we must struggle against it, Chatty."

"Dear mamma, isn't ladies' society the best for us? Minnie always said
so. She said it was a dreadful thing for a girl to think of gentlemen."

"Minnie always was an oracle. To think of gentlemen whom you were likely
to fall in love with, and marry, perhaps--but I don't think there are
many of that class here."

"Oh no," said Chatty, returning to her work, "at least I hope not."

"I am not at all of your opinion, my dear. I should like a number of
them; and nice girls too. I should not wish to keep all these dangerous
personages for you."

"Mamma!" said Chatty, with a soft reproachful glance. It seemed a
desecration to her to think that ever again--that ever another----

"That gives a little zest to all the middle-aged talks. It amuses other
people to see a little romance going on. You were always rather shocked
at your light-minded mother, Chatty."

"Mamma! it might be perhaps very sad for--for those most concerned,
though it amused you."

"I hope not, my darling. You take things too seriously. There is, to be
sure, a painful story now and then, but very rarely. You must not think
that men are deceivers ever, as the song says."

"Oh no," said Chatty, elevating her head with simple pride, though
without meeting her mother's eyes, "that is not what I would say. But
why talk of such things at all? why put romances, as you call them, into
people's heads? People may be kind and friendly without anything more."

Mrs. Warrender here paused to study the gentle countenance which was
half hidden from her, bending over the muslin work, and for the first
time gained a little glimpse into what was going on in Chatty's heart.
The mother had long known that her own being was an undiscovered country
for her children; but it was new to her and a startling discovery that
perhaps this innocent creature, so close to her, had also a little
sanctuary of her own, into which the eyes most near to her had never
looked. She marked the little signs of meaning quite unusual to her
composed and gentle child--the slight quiver which was in Chatty's
bent head, the determined devotion to her work which kept her face
unseen--with a curious confusion in her mind. She had felt sure that
Dick Cavendish had mad