Mrs. Varley had resolved to secure the Rev. Mr. Style for her youngest daughter, and she determined that nothing should be left undone to accomplish so desirable an object. Charlotte was herself too weak to play her part _well_ in a well concerted scheme—but in a miserably lame one, she played it wretchedly. Mr. Style saw to his infinite but necessarily concealed disgust, the snare that was spread in his sight, and though nothing in the world was easier than to escape, it subjected him to a mortifying espionage, and most disagreeable caution in his pastoral intercourse with his people. What the designs of others might be he was too high-minded even to imagine; but there was no mistaking Miss Charlotte Varley’s intentions, with eyes only half open. Since Mr. Style had been an inmate of Mrs. Tower’s household, Mrs. Varley had been making perpetual attempts to place herself and her daughters on a footing of intimacy there; but her efforts had been unsuccessful, as Mrs. Tower was just as polite as ever, and just as reserved as ever, leaving Mrs. Varley to guess at the reason. Of course she put her own construction upon the matter, and never failed, when she could find or make an opportunity, to hint at something unfavorable in relation to Mrs. Tower. She did, as malicious people often do, foil herself with her own weapons, for almost every body loved and admired Mrs. Tower, and distrusted and disliked Mrs. Varley, though her wealth and standing in society gave her a kind of influence and power, which she and the five Misses Varley most industriously exerted. Mrs. Tower’s clear mind fathomed at a glance the intent of her neighbor, but the sentinels about the out-posts of her prudence, were never for once caught slumbering on duty, or taken in a moment of unguardedness; and she sealed her discoveries in her own breast, leaving her friend and protégé, the Rev. Mr. Style, to his own conclusions and his own discretion. He longed to ask her if his observations tallied with hers, but he feared it might savor of conceit, or wear some other unworthy aspect in her eyes, so they remained mutually silent. Such was the condition of things when Mrs. Tower welcomed to her house and her hospitalities the daughter of her early friend, sweet Jessie Lincoln. An illness of a few days had delayed her arrival, but the paleness it had left on her cheek only added a charm to her sad and lovely face. “Now you are mine for a long, long time—for _always_, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she folded the gentle girl to her heart. “How long I have urged you, and now you are really with me at length? How like the Jessie of my childhood you are, dearest, and how like the Jessie I laid beside her father in the grave!” The awakening of painful remembrances brought the relief of mingled tears to the childless widow and the orphan Jessie; but soon controlling her emotions Mrs. Tower continued—