Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and bony. She had won her husband by making desperate love to him, to say nothing of a dower that enabled him to extend his business, new-front, as well as new-stock his shop, and rise into the very first rank of tradesmen in his native town. He still believed that she was excessively fond of him--a common delusion of husbands, especially when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, perhaps, fond of him in her own way; for though her heart was not warm, there may be a great deal of fondness with very little feeling. The worthy lady was now clothed in her best. She had a proper pride in showing the rewards that belong to female virtue. Flowers adorned her Leghorn bonnet, and her green silk gown boasted four flounces,--such, then, was, I am told, the fashion. She wore, also, a very handsome black shawl, extremely heavy, though the day was oppressively hot, and with a deep border; a smart sevigni brooch of yellow topazes glittered in her breast; a huge gilt serpent glared from her waistband; her hair, or more properly speaking her front, was tortured into very tight curls, and her feet into very tight half-laced boots, from which the fragrance of new leather had not yet departed. It was this last infliction, for _il faut souffrir pour etre belle_, which somewhat yet more acerbated the ordinary acid of Mrs. Morton’s temper. The sweetest disposition is ruffled when the shoe pinches; and it so happened that Mrs. Roger Morton was one of those ladies who always have chilblains in the winter and corns in the summer. “So you say your sister is a beauty?” “Was a beauty, Mrs. M.,--was a beauty. People alter.” “A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is--” “My dear, can’t you walk faster?” “If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would not talk in that way!” The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sundry “How d’ye dos?” and “Good mornings!” interchanged with their friends, till they arrived at the inn. “Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton. And quiet--quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy overnight, seem by morning. The shutters partially closed to keep out the sun--the taproom deserted--the passage smelling of stale smoke--an elderly dog, lazily snapping at the flies, at the foot of the staircase--not a soul to be seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered Catherine’s apartment. Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney-dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome children sure of praise and petting usually are--stood by her side.