What a dangerous thing it is to interfere with the inclinations of others. If there is anything in the world calculated to disgust two people with one another, it is the discovery that their friends are laboring “to make a match between them.” Ada had just made this discovery. The ceremony over, etiquette required that for a time at least she should endure the attentions of her luckless admirer. He really was in a position of some difficulty, but he acquitted himself therein with such perfect tact and good-breeding, that Ada felt bound to hate him less. But as soon as an excuse presented itself, she crossed the room, to join another group, and left Mr. Stanley to the civilities of a young lady, who seemed disposed to pay him every attention in her power. He, poor fellow, almost sighed, as he followed her graceful figure; but he resolved not to distress her with pursuit; so he addressed himself to the young lady beside him—talked a variety of elegant nonsense to half the company, and finally took his seat by Catharine. “What have you done?” said he, reproachfully. “Enough to mar the pleasure of my bridal day,” replied the penitent bride; “but how could I dream—it was all a jest springing from my unbounded delight, when I found that, like Romeo, you had fallen in love with her at first sight.” Mr. Stanley shook his head and smiled. “It might as well have been,” answered she, and then lowering her voice, she added, “How strange! how very strange! and how delightful!” “Delightful for you, perhaps,” said her companion, in a serious tone; “but first from my own, and now from _your_ blunder, Catharine, I fear that the day on which I first met her, will be an inauspicious one for me.” He then related to Catharine all that Ada had omitted—blamed himself for the indiscretion of his visit to Mrs. Wilson; “and now, my dear Catharine,” said he, “have you and I together not done enough to make her hate me?” “Hate you! Heaven forbid! for then I shall have held my tongue to no purpose, and shall have wasted a great deal of good feeling in your service.” “Your feelings are just what they ought to be, ardent and affectionate, but your judgment, I fear,” added he, with a smile, “is no better—than my own.” “Then what _shall_ I do?” asked Catharine, despairingly. “Do, my dear Catharine? Do—nothing.” “Well, this is sentence of death, indeed, upon my talents for meddling; but never mind, I am so much more anxious to serve you than to distinguish myself, that I will—try.”