uite clear as to who it was that went for Dr. Brown. However, that
mattered little, as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more by
a natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of service
rendered.

"I am a very great invalid, sir; my dear, will you explain to the
gentleman?" And he leaned his head back wearily.

"My father has never recovered his ten years' residence in the West
Indies."

"'Residence?' Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was governor of--"

"Oh, yes!--The climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher. But since
he has been in England--five years only--he has been very much better.
I hope he will be quite well in time."

Mr. March shook his head drearily. Poor man! the world of existence to
him seemed to have melted lazily down into a mere nebula, of which the
forlorn nucleus was--himself. What a life for any young creature--even
his own daughter, to be bound to continually!

I could not help remarking the strong contrast between them. He, with
his sallow, delicately-shaped features--the thin mouth and long
straight nose, of that form I have heard called the "melancholy nose,"
which usually indicates a feeble, pensive, and hypochondriac
temperament; while his daughter--But I have described her already.

"Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, father," she said; so gently, that I
could feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity; and took gratefully a
seat she gave me, beside that of Mr. March. She seemed inclined to
talk to me; and her manner was perfectly easy, friendly, and kind.

We spoke of commonplace subjects, near at hand, and of the West Indian
island, which its late "governor" was apparently by no means inclined
to forget. I asked Miss March whether she had liked it?

"I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind, in
Wales--poor mamma's country. Were you ever in Wales? I like it so!
Indeed, I feel as if I belonged altogether to the mountains."

And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the free mountain
spirit--a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply outlined; but that would
soften with time, and was better and wholesomer than any tame green
level of soft perfection. At least, one inclined to think so, looking
at her.

I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it.

In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he hung
trustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and asked if she
could lend me any books to read? I must find