The winter passed quickly on. The only event of moment that occurred was Meta’s rejection of Mr. Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the haughty Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting it myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good. I knew it would have been far better for Meta to have loved him; his influence over her impressible nature would have been so beneficial; and when by chance once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and noticed his serious, grieved countenance, my conscience felt smitten, and in sadness I would compare him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any thing but flattering to the latter. The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who were still as adoring as ever. One thing I do remember as strange, and at the time it annoyed me, although I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express or even realize the actual annoyance. Although Mr. Morris knew, could not help knowing, that I was fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he never once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it; and two or three times, when other unavoidable engagements prevented Meta from joining him at the appointed time, and on his coming in the evening, I would hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a love _poulet_ for him, he would read it without remark, and, to my surprise, stay the accustomed time, entertaining Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for that purpose. That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one of her heroines express an opinion, that certainly does apply to such men us Charles Morris. She says, “I have the highest opinion of men’s honor amongst themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very little in the case where we women, with our interests and affections are concerned.” The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris promised to meet Meta at the fashionable watering-place she was going to with her aunt and Mrs. Folwell; but the season passed without his doing so—business, he said, had prevented him; and when Meta returned in the fall, she looked pale, dispirited and unhappy. “I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without exciting suspicion. Had you been in town, Enna, he would have written through you; but as it was, I had to pass the weary season without any intelligence from him. Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and truly, I think, even the horror I used to have of Aunt Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better than this misery of silence and separation.” They met again—but after the interview Meta seemed still tearful and nervous. It was evident she wearied of the concealment, but her lover did not.