I am not going to say that Lizzy Davis did this of “prepense;” I am even candid enough to acknowledge to you that I am not quite sure I can understand her. She had ways of acting and thinking peculiarly her own. She was not always what the French call _conséquente_, but she was marvellously quick to discover she was astray, and “try back.” She was one of those people who have more difficulty in dealing with themselves than with others. She had an instinctive appreciation of those whose natures she came in contact with, joined to a strong desire to please; and, lastly, there was scarcely a human temperament with which she could not sympathize somewhere. She let Beecher talk on, because it pleased _him_, and pleasing _him_ became, at last, a pleasure to herself. When he recalled little traits of generosity, the kind things he had done here, the good-natured acts he had done there, she led him on to feel a more manly pride in himself than when recounting tales of his sharp practices on the turf and his keen exploits in the ring. Beecher saw this leaning on her part, and ascribed it all to her “ignorance of the world,” and firmly believed that when she saw more of life she would think more highly of his intellect than even of his heart. Poor fellow! they were beautifully balanced, and phrenology for once would have its triumph in showing the mental and the moral qualities in equilibrium. After the first week they were always together, for Davis was continually on the road,--now to Neuwied, now to Höchst. The letters and telegrams that he despatched and received were incredible in number; and when jested with on the amount of his correspondence by Beecher, his only answer was, “It's all _your_ business, my boy,--the whole concerns _you_.” Now, Annesley Beecher was far too much of a philosopher to trouble his head about anything which could be avoided, and to find somebody who devoted himself to his interests, opened and read the dunning appeals of creditors, answered their demands by “renewals,” or cajoled them by promises, was one of the highest luxuries he could imagine. Indeed, if Grog would only fight for him and go to jail for him, he 'd have deemed his happiness complete. “And who knows,” thought he, “but it may come to that yet? I seem to have thrown a sort of fascination over the old fellow that may lead him any lengths.”