And he stroked her hair with a caressing kindness which was at that time about the best sentiment in the young man’s mind. He was often embarrassed by her, and sometimes had asked himself the question, What on earth was it to come to? for he too, like his mother, believed that Innocent was in love with him; and the love of such a girl, so manifested, was more absurd than gratifying. But yet he was always kind to her. Evil impulses enough of one kind and another were in his mind, and he could have made of this girl anything he pleased, his slave, the servant of his will in any way. But he never treated her otherwise than as his little sister, and was kind, and put up with her demonstrative affection, and did his best to advise her “for her good.” “You must not shrink so from my mother and Nelly,” he said. “They want to be kind to you. If you could only take to them, it would be much better for you than taking to a fellow like me----” “I don’t like women,” said Innocent. “My father always said so. I cannot help being one myself, but I hate them. And nobody is like you.” “That is very pleasant for me,” said Frederick, “but you must not keep up that notion about women. Your father was a capital judge, I have no doubt, but he might have taught you something more useful. Depend upon it, you will never be happy till you make friends with your own sex. They may be dangerous to men, though men are not generally of your opinion,” continued the moralist, “but for you, Innocent, mark my words, it is far your best policy to make the women your friends.” “What is policy?” she asked, stealing her hand into his, much as a dog puts his nose into his master’s hand. “Pshaw!” said Frederick. His mother had come into the room and had seen this pantomime. “You ought to be put to school and learn English,” he added, somewhat roughly. “I don’t believe she understands half of what we say.”