"Do not be afraid that Mr. Shenstone will suffer at my hands. He has been my guide and counsellor ever since I was younger than you; and so, you see, I have reason to know, experimentally, the value of his counsels, and the possibility of not doing right in spite of them. He is the noblest of men, the most clear-sighted and wise of counsellors, and my nearest and truest friend, and yet, for all that, I have often gone contrary to his rules, and, no doubt, often grieved his kind heart. But, so it goes! The human heart, you are aware, my young friend, is the very perversest of all created things. Now, at this very moment, would you believe it, I am doing what that same good and wise Mr. Shenstone has warned me not to do; and, moreover, mean to continue doing it." I looked in astonishment. "I wonder at you, sir. You will be sorry in the end. Mr. Shenstone, I am certain, knows better than you do." "How can you possibly know? You cannot tell anything about the right of the case." "No, of course I don't know anything about it; but from the nature of things, Mr. Shenstone is the most likely to be right. He's older than you, he's a clergyman, and--well--you will not be angry, but I think he is much less likely to be governed by his wishes than you, much more likely to see the right, and give up everything else for it, and to look at things clear of the mists that other people see them through. You know what I mean," I continued, "even though I don't express it very well; and oh! Mr. Rutledge, I am sure you must see, if you think about it at all, that it is very unwise in you to reject Mr. Shenstone's advice. The time may come when you'll regret it." "Nevertheless, I shall do it." From perversity, perhaps, as much as anything else, I continued to urge what I thought right. There was quite a fascination in contradicting and opposing Mr. Rutledge; it gave me a giddy sense of elation to think I dared do it, and though I did not gain my point, it diverted me from the thoughts of to-morrow's pain, till the clock struck, and I started up in alarm. "It's only eleven, Cinderella; there's no need for such a frightened look. There is an hour left of your last evening at Rutledge." "No, indeed; Kitty is waiting for me, and there is so much to be done before to-morrow at ten o'clock. Good night, sir." "Ah, I see you are in a hurry; you are tired. Why didn't you go before? Ten is your usual hour." The clock had struck another half hour before my last evening at Rutledge was ended--before the last good night was spoken at the library door, and, with a sad enough heart, I ascended the stairs, and traversed the dreary hall, where not even ghostly terrors would have had power to startle me from the heavy grief that was lying at my heart.