“Well, Adelaide, what do you think of Mrs. Tower’s coaxing a very pretty young lady to her house, to pass some weeks in company with the Rev. Mr. Style?” said Charlotte, very sharply, as she ran upstairs to the parlor, in double quick time, quite independent of the “heart difficulty,” that had so impeded her progress home. “It’s downright scandalous!” said Miss Annette, the eldest daughter, “and I should not wonder at any breeze it might raise in the church and society—it may result in something very unpleasant indeed!” and Annette shook her head very doubtfully. “It is ridiculous! Nothing but a trap, depend on it,” said Mrs. Varley, for Adelaide had detailed the whole story with her own annotations long before Charlotte reached home. “It is really a very presuming thing,” seriously responded Annette, shaking her head still more dubiously. “Yes, yes—very presumptuous indeed!” sneered Mrs. Varley, who never had any opinions, only those that were to be had at second hand. “Just as if Mrs. Tower could not only dictate who we shall have for minister, but also who he shall _marry_! for I declare, girls, it looks like that—don’t it now?” “To be sure it does, mamma,” replied Annette; “you have hit the nail on the head this time! It takes _you_ to see what folks are about behind the scenes. Lottie, did you get any particulars about this person out of Mr. Style, coming home—whether he ever saw her—whether she is rich and fashionable, so it will do for _us_ to notice her—” “No, Annette, I did not learn any thing about her, though I asked questions enough in all conscience,” fretted Charlotte. “But I think we had better write immediately to Mrs. Tyler and find out something,” she continued. “I declare, mamma,” and the tears started to her eyes for very vexation and disappointment, “Mr. Style would not speak only on the most indifferent subjects coming home, and if I don’t bring him to the point soon, I don’t believe one of us will ever be married in the world, and I will go to a convent! I _will_!” “Don’t say so, Lottie! don’t dear,” soothed the mamma—“only think what good aim money takes at the hearts of men, and are we not _rich_, child; and are not my daughters fine dashing girls, dressing as well as the best of ’em, and wont they finally marry _jest as they please_? The chaff always blows away first, they used to say when I was young!” “Well, who wants to wait forever, mother, for all that?” said Annette, who really had waited a reasonable time, with her purse and her heart in her hand, and yet no bidders. “_I_ for one, want to wait till I am _sought_,” said Adelaide, “and not make such a ridiculous matter of it as Charlotte does, in her pursuit of Mr. Style. The girls all laughed at your speeches, Lottie, till I am heartily vexed and ashamed about the whole game. Do be a little wiser in your demonstrations—”