“Pray, Kate,” asked she, “when did the mantle of divination fall upon those pretty shoulders?” “Oh, I became wise like Cassandra. Love has made me a prophetess.” “And like Cassandra, a prophetess whom nobody heeds.” “Right, Ada,” exclaimed Catharine, exultingly, “and to complete the resemblance, a true prophetess, notwithstanding.” “You are clever at repartee, my Kate, but you have mistaken your vocation. If at the mature age of twenty-three I have never loved—” “You forget James Darrington.” “Pshaw,” said Ada, slightly coloring, “as if that deserved a name.” “It does—for it proves that the object, not the feeling, is wanting.” “It proves no such thing, so stop weaving romances for me, and make up your mind, like a good girl, to see me live the life, and die the death of an old maid.” “The death of an old maid!” Catharine lifted up her hands in horror. “I could not die in better company, Catharine, and I am surprised to hear any thing so _missish_ from one who was once a rational being.” “Thank you, Ada. But if I err, I have the comfort of erring with the whole world; and as I am no Briareus, I cannot lift my single arm to do battle with its errors. Besides, the prejudice against old maids is not one of yesterday; remember the lament of Jeptha’s daughter.” “Do not quote the Jews to me for any thing!” cried Ada. “A wicked and idolatrous race, who, in the very desert where heaven rained manna for their food, and the rocks gushed forth water for their drink, could turn from the visible presence of the living God, and bow down before a golden calf! The heathens, for their opportunities, were both wiser and better than the children of Israel; and among them, the priestesses of the temples, the most honored of their women, were virgins. But stay! we do not need their sanction. The most perfect of created beings, she who was chosen to be the mother of the Saviour, is she not called ‘the blessed Virgin?’” “Ay, dear Ada,” said Catharine, dropping her levity, “but she was a mother, and so fulfilled woman’s highest and dearest mission.” “In her case it was both; and in all cases, the vocation of the wife and mother is a beautiful and joyous one; but precisely because in the eyes of the world it _is_ so graceful and honorable, does it seem to me less noble than that of the lonely woman, who, first in the heart of none, devotes herself to all, for the love of heaven. The sister of charity, whose gentle hand smoothes the pillow of the dying outcast, the pensive nun, who sits at the Redeemer’s feet, are they not the Marys, ‘who have chosen the better part;’ and the busy wife, with her thousand cares, is she not that Martha troubled about many things?” Catharine was touched by the eloquent earnestness of her friend’s manner, but it was not in her nature to be serious; she could only pause, to get over the embarrassment of feeling solemn, and then answer: