“My dear aunt,” she cried to Mrs. Horton, “follow and prevail upon Miss Milner to give up her design; she means to be at the ball in opposition to her guardian’s will.” “Then,” said Mrs. Horton, “I’ll not be instrumental in detering her—if she does it may be for the best; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer knowledge what means are proper to convert her from evil.” “But, my dear Madam, she must be preserved from the evil of disobedience; and as you tempted, you will be the most likely to dissuade her. But if you will not, I must endeavour.” Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good work, when Mrs. Horton, in imitation of the example given her by Dorriforth, cried, “Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room this evening.” Miss Woodley obediently sat down—and though her thoughts and heart were in the chamber of her friend, she never marked by one impertinent word, or by one line of her face, the restraint she suffered. At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were summoned to tea:—he entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye gave testimony of his absent thoughts; and though he took up a pamphlet affecting to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely knew he held it in his hand. Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent upon something else as Dorriforth’s—she longed for the event of this misunderstanding; and though she wished no ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent upon seeing something new—without the fatigue of going out of her own house—she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might be. But for fear she should have the imprudence to speak a word upon the subject which employed her thoughts, or even to look as if she thought of it at all; she pinched her lips close together, and cast her eyes on vacancy, lest their significant regards might expose her to detection. And for fear any noise should intercept even the sound of what might happen, she walked across the room more softly than usual, and more softly touched every thing she was obliged to lay her hand on. Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute; and now the gingle of a tea spoon was like a deep-toned bell, all was so quiet. Mrs. Horton, too, in the self-approving reflection that she was not in a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt herself at this moment remarkably peaceful and charitable. Miss Woodley did not recollect _herself_ so, but was so in reality—in her, peace and charity were instinctive virtues, accident could not increase them.