I loved and respected Cornelia Payne; she was one of my dearest friends, and, unlike most girls of her age—we were only nineteen then—she had a strong, decided character. Her oddities did not spring from affectation, nor did her warmly expressed opinions proceed from a spirit of arbitrary obstinacy. She was true and sincere, and had a good, strong mind. She had faults,—who has not? And her principal fault was a sad one, she was harsh and uncharitable in her judgments of others. She had never known trouble or temptation; and honest, firm, and upright herself, she always judged every one by her own standard—a standard that had never been tested by a single trial. Whenever we remonstrated with her, her replies were such as “Nine times out of ten appearances are the best to judge by,” or, “There is so much cant and affectation, so much petty falsehood in society, that it makes one forget there is such a virtue as charity,” or, “There are certain bounds to charity beyond which it ceases to be a virtue, and becomes a weakness, and a cowardly shield to vice,” which replies generally silenced me. The evening following the conversation which opened this sketch, we were all assembled in the _cozie_, comfortable library. Some friends had called in, and, according to the too usual custom, the conversation turned upon the absent. The subject of discourse was the conduct of two persons, a husband and wife, with whom the company assembled were sufficiently acquainted, to feel interested in their well or ill doings. A few weeks previous the husband had made a most disgraceful failure, and had been detected in various dishonorable transactions; whereupon his wife, with whom he had always lived happily, apparently, left him, and returned to her family; and since her desertion of him, her friends had made application for a divorce. This was commented upon pretty severely, and almost every one blamed the wife for her heartlessness; and circumstances were mentioned to prove the uniform kindness and lavish indulgence of the husband in the days of his prosperity. My friend Cornelia was almost the only one of the party who defended her. “That’s so like you, Cornelia,” said her cousin, Harry Peters, laughing, “you always lake ‘the forlorne hope’ in an argument, and seize up the cudgels for the minority.” “You are unjust, Harry,” replied Cornelia, a little piqued, “I always take the side of my opinion, and defend that which I think honest and right. I scarcely know Mrs. Barclay, therefore, neither am I prejudiced, for she is no favorite of mine; she always seemed to me a cold, selfish woman, even when everybody, and you particularly, Harry, admired her so much. But I do say, that I do not excuse, I uphold her conduct in this matter. Even thus should I have acted had I been thus placed, guided by a strict sense of duty. I could love as devotedly and truly as any of you, but my love would wither away, under the scorching breath of dishonor and crime.”