“You have a greater resemblance of your father, Miss Milner, than I imagined you had from report: I did not expect to find you so like him.” “Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you any thing like what you are.” “No?—pray what did you expect to find me?” “I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain man.” This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone which obviously declared she thought her guardian young and handsome. He replied, but not without some little embarrassment, “A plain man you shall find me in all my actions.” “Then your actions are to contradict your appearance.” For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality peculiar to wits, of hazarding the thought that first occurs, which thought, is generally truth. On this, he paid her a compliment in return. “You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad judge of what is plain, and what is not.” “How so?” “Because I am sure you will readily own you do not think yourself handsome; and allowing that, you instantly want judgment.” “And I would rather want judgment than beauty,” she replied, “and so I give up the one for the other.” With a serious face, as if proposing a very serious question, Dorriforth continued, “And you really believe you are not handsome?” “I should, if I consulted my own opinion, believe that I was not; but in some respects I am like Roman Catholics; I don’t believe upon my own understanding, but from what other people tell me.” “And let this convince you,” replied Dorriforth, “that what we teach is truth; for you find you would be deceived did you not trust to persons who know better than yourself. But, my dear Miss Milner, we will talk upon some other topic, and never resume this again—we differ in opinion, I dare say, on one subject only, and this difference I hope will never extend itself to any other. Therefore, let not religion be named between us; for as I have resolved never to persecute you, in pity be grateful, and do not persecute me.”