"I never was fond of studying any thing, Emmeline, as you may remember," replied Mrs. Fortescue, painfully trying to smile, "and therefore I dare say I have not studied my children as you have yours. Besides, you know I always thought, and still think, the doctrine of mothers forming the characters of their children, and all that good people say about the importance of early impressions, perfectly ridiculous. The disposition for good or bad, loving or unloving, is theirs from the moment of their birth, and what human efforts can alter that? Why, the very infancy of my children was different; Edward was always laughing, and animated, and happy; Ellen fretful and peevish, and so heavy that she never seemed even to know when I entered the room, while Edward would spring into my arms, and shout and laugh only to see me. Now what conduct on my part could have done this? Surely I was justified in feeling differently toward such opposite dispositions; and I know I never made more difference between them than--than papa did between us, Emmeline, and I have had greater reason to be partial; you were always better than I was." She ceased, from exhaustion, but the flush which had risen to her temples, and the trembling hands evinced the agitation always called for by the mention of her father, which Mrs. Hamilton, with earnest tenderness, endeavored to soothe. "I must speak, Emmeline," she continued, natural impetuosity for the moment regaining ascendency; "how did I repay my fond father's partiality? his too great indulgence? Did I not bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave? Did I not throw shame and misery upon him by my conduct to the ill-fated one he had chosen for my husband? Did I not?--oh, my God, my God! Death may indeed be merciful!--my Edward might do the same by me!" and, shuddering violently, she hid her face on her sister's bosom.