What do you think? About four years ago, when Tom and I came from college, both having graduated with honor, he decided that it was time for him to make open and resolute approaches toward the great end upon which his hopes were fixed. Consequently, all the time he could spare from the study of law, and his excellent family, he used to spend with Jane; and so far as I could judge, from occasionally playing the part of “Monsieur de trop,” in a ride, or walk, or at the piano, she was entirely satisfied to have it so. But one night, after Tom had been making himself particularly agreeable, as he thought, to the old lady, and had listened to the tale of the Huguenots for the fortieth time, with exemplary patience, though his brain was boiling, and he was wishing to the very bottom of his heart that all her ancestors _had_ passed “that bourne from which no traveler returns!” that very night, after he had taken his leave, Mrs. Elliot called her daughter to her, and said in a calm and serious voice, “My dear, I must request that you will not be quite so familiar with Mr. Barton. I begin to fear that you are liking him too well.” “Why, mother, we all like Tom.” “I know that; and I’m very well satisfied to have him here as often as the other young gentlemen of the town. His mother is a very proper person, and so is his father, but there has never been any thing further than a street acquaintance between us, and I do not mean that there shall.” “But, mother, why so? they are very good people surely.” Mrs. Elliot did not answer directly, but walked to the centre-table, upon which some refreshments were still standing, and taking up one of the spoons from a waiter, she placed it in her daughter’s hand, and with an air of quiet satisfaction, directed her to read aloud what she saw on the handle. “I see nothing very remarkable, my dear mother,” said the smiling Jane. “Here is the old family crest, and your initials and my father’s blended, and quite an ambitious wreath of flowers running round the whole.” “I will thank you, my daughter, to speak more respectfully, when you do speak of such matters; but that is not what I mean, read the stamp on the other side.” “A. Barton, and some hieroglyphics which I cannot make out, is all that I see.” “Do you know who A. Barton is, my dear?” “Of course; it is old Mr. Barton, Tom’s father. Why, mother, I have read this a hundred times before. It is printed on my pap spoon, and on all the new-fashioned silver we have in the house. But what of that?” “Simply this, Miss Jane Elliot, I shall never give my consent for you to receive as a lover the son of a man who makes our spoons, and cleans our watches, and who, in short, is only a mechanic. Good night.” Jane was too much surprised and grieved to say any thing, and she went to her room, her heart cruelly divided between the duty she owed to her mother, and the love that she had so long cherished for her _betrothed_.