"Ah, I used, in my old days of lofty aspiration, to look on good temper as the virtue of second rate characters, and I believed that great minds must be fickle and changeable." "And if you have altered your opinion, why do you not practise your new doctrine?" she said, archly. "You allude to my getting out of temper at dinner on Saturday; but then you must own I instantly recovered myself." "I do not mean then only; but I often see the flash which denotes the inward storm, though no thunder follows." "What, am I to sit unmoved, and hear the best motives misjudged--self-devotion ridiculed--the mourner made to feel all the bitterness of grief--and the orphan without a friend?" "If you speak of me," replied his companion, with a gay smile, "do not forget that I have some friends left still; but if I had none, no champion of mine should use the weapons I would not wield myself; and, remember, I can change my position when I like." "How?" "By changing dependence, if it be so--but I do not like to call it that--for independence." And she leant forward, and patted her horse's impatient head, with a look of childish unconcern. "Then how can you remain here if you have the power to leave?" "You will think me vain if I tell you," she said, carefully smoothing back the mane, which would get on the wrong side. "No, no--tell me why? for you make me curious." "Well, then--I hoped Lucy had some real affection for me--and I thought I might influence her, as I hope I have done--and I was deeply interested in my uncle--for he has been so kind to me--and I like him so much. Besides, had I any right, without good cause, to cast off my aunt's protection, since it was a pledge which she had given to my dear mother. No, I should have had no right to do that, at first--and I could not, had I wished to do it--for I had not spirit then to leave the refuge of the lowest hovel, had it given me shelter. There were many discomforts here, which were yet preferable to being so entirely unprotected, as I soon shall be--we women shrink from the idea of being our own protectors. But I cannot stay much longer where I am unwelcome--a few more thoughts for Lucy--a few more efforts to make them all love me, and then I think I shall go." "But where will you go?" "Oh, I have thought of that. There is a school friend of mine--a very dear friend, too, though I have not seen her for many years--she is now, poor thing, a widow--and, young as she is, has a family of six children, almost unprovided for, while she herself is in weak health. Now, I am thinking of offering to go, and live with her, and take charge of her children's education; for, you must know, that my aunt has more than six hundred pounds, which belong to me, the interest of which will furnish all I need, and enable me to do without a salary." "Your aunt has your money, you say--how is that?"