‘Kindness there I take to imply a mental state, and not a pushing, exacting benevolence,’ replied the Vicar. ‘Charity poketh not its nose into its neighbour’s business--maketh not matches--busieth not itself with the conduct of other people’s lives--and never doeth any harm. Good-nature does no end of mischief--in a perfectly well-meaning way.’ The Vicar spoke with some soreness. Poor Mrs. Dulcimer’s good-nature, and sometimes misdirected energy, had been getting her into trouble for the last twenty years. Everybody liked her; everybody dreaded and abhorred her good-nature. She had no children of her own, and was always full of good advice for the mothers of her acquaintance. She knew when babies ought to be weaned, and when they were sickening for the measles. She tried to heal family quarrels, and invariably made the breach wider. She loved match-making, but her matches, when brought to the triumphant conclusion of licence or wedding cake, seldom stood the test of a few years’ matrimony. She was so eager to do the best for the young men and women of her acquaintance, that she generally brought ill-assorted people together, taking too broad a view of the fitness of things, on the ground of income, family, age, and such vulgar qualifications, and ignoring those subtle differences which set an eternal mark of separation upon certain members of the human family. ‘I think, Selina, if I were you, I would leave Beatrix to find a husband for herself,’ said the Vicar, stretching out his legs comfortably before the wide hearth. ‘She is young--there is plenty of time. Let her come here as often as she pleases. I like to see that Rembrandt face of hers. But let things take their own course. “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them as we will.” Don’t you think it is almost an impertinence towards that ever active Providence for us poor worms to be always taking one another’s lives under our petty protection, and trying to shape them our way?’ ‘Clement!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, ruffling her plumes a little. She wore a good deal of lace frilling and muslin puffing about her neck and breast, and these adornments were subject to an occasional agitation, like the feathers of an excited Dorking, or one of the Vicar’s golden-pencilled Hamburgs. ‘Clement,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you have a beautiful temper, but I’m afraid you are selfish.’ The Vicar laid down his book with a smile of satisfaction. He saw the opportunity for a paradox. ‘My love, did you ever know a good-tempered man who wasn’t selfish? or rather, did you ever know a thoroughly selfish person who wasn’t good-tempered? Your wisely selfish man knows his own interest too well to fret and fume about trifles. He knows that, after five-and-twenty years of age, the supreme good in this life is repose, and that he can never enjoy it unless he cultivates an easy temper.’ ‘Selfishness is a vice, Clement.’