“Minny has more than that,” St. Julian said, warmly. “She has great depth of feeling, cultivation, and correct judgment. I grant she is not what the world calls brilliant—a brilliant woman never would have suited me for a wife.” “Your opinion has changed since our college days,” I could not help saying. “Many of my opinions,” said Frank. “But in this I was aided by one of the most brilliant women I have ever met.” “She rejected you, I suppose, and taught you wisdom through wounded self-love.” “No—yes—if it can be called rejection when I never offered any thing but admiration. But you shall hear all about it, if you would like it.” “Of all things.” “Well, then, you must not interrupt me, or ever mention it again. I believe it is a little pride in the support of my theory that urges me to the confession. Sometimes I like to bring her before me, however—but I always turn to the thought of Minny with _such_ satisfaction.” I believed him as he said it. His face was lighted by an honest heart; I did not believe Mrs. St. Julian herself would have been wounded—tenacious as all women are of predecessors—could she have heard the conclusion. “Beatrice—that was her name,” said St. Julian, stretching his slippered feet more comfortably toward the fire; “and I always thought no other would have suited her. She came to pass the winter in St. Louis, the first year I commenced practice there. Such an arrival, of course, made some stir in our circle; society was not as good, or as large there then as it is now. She was a widow—don’t look alarmed, Frank, you never would have believed she had been married, but for a certain ease and assured manner, not the bold, pushing way, assigned to widows generally—and vulgarly, too, let me say. They told me she was about twenty-four, with a small but comfortable income, and had married a man she could not love. He proved to be dishonorable in business transactions, though a man of fascinating manner and cultivated mind. I know a dozen such men, and could see that while she had gained much intellectually by the association, her heart must have been starved. “I remember distinctly the first time I saw her. Anthon, my partner, visited her, and from him I had taken a dislike to her. I fancied she was in the old style, a cautious, calculating coquette, expecting general homage. I was determined she should receive none from me.