The baronet had not apparently given his attention to one word of this conversation, for though his eyes were fixed on me, he seemed totally absorbed in his own reflexions. “You have not listened to this debate, my dear Sir Murdock,” observed his wife, pressing his passive hand, “otherwise I would call upon you as umpire between the contending parties.” “You are mistaken,” answered he smiling, “I have not lost a syllable of what has passed, and my decision is ready. No adventitious advantages will engender conceit or vanity in a mind that has solidity, and that rests upon those principles which alone can bestow _real excellence_ and produce _permanent esteem_. But I am curious to know by what means Miss Cowley has acquired the wisdom to estimate so justly an advantage which it must be confessed, with her face and at her age, one would not have expected.”—“I will convince you,” replied I with gravity, “that if I am not vain, it is because I am proud. I was educated by a woman, who, to good sense, joined every virtue that adorns the female character.” Her example, as much as her precepts, contributed to form me: and such was her influence, that to resemble Mrs. Hardcastle was the purpose of my life, even before I was qualified to judge of her merit, or to measure the ascent I had to gain in my approaches to her perfections. Mrs. Hardcastle was a handsome woman; but she was neither vain nor affected. Yet I will confess, I wished to be as handsome as Mrs. Hardcastle, who was indeed a beautiful woman; for I particularly noticed the consideration her elegant person produced before strangers. But a lesson, which I still remember, checked, it may be, the vanity of the girl. I was, when about twelve or thirteen years old, one morning alone with my mother, as I called Mrs. Hardcastle, when our reading was interrupted by the visit of a neighbouring gentleman, who had however been some months on a tour. No sooner had he received the frank and easy welcome of Mrs. Hardcastle, than he examined me; and with the most elaborate praise spoke of my improvement, growth, and _extraordinary beauty_. During these commendations, which, although they made me blush, did not offend me, my maternal friend was good humouredly caressing his dog, which was a very ugly cur. “You have not lost your enthusiasm for beauty I perceive,” observed she smiling. “But what is become of your pretty Italian grey-hound? and how happens it that her post is filled up by this miserable looking animal?” “I would not give that dog,” replied he, “for an hundred Italian grey-hounds, each more beautiful than Fidêle. She was not worth the keeping, except as a plaything to my little nephew: but this dog has qualities which are inestimable.” Mrs. Hardcastle laughed, and turning towards me said, with that sweetness which so distinguished her, “You see, my dear girl, the _worth of beauty_ when unfriended by _useful talents_: remember poor Fidêle, and