"Not very, sir; I have never seen a great deal of them. We lived in the country, and excepting when we went to town for a visit, we were not together. You met them abroad, did you not, sir?" "Yes; we travelled through Switzerland together, and I saw them very frequently last winter in Paris." "Oh!" I exclaimed, eagerly, quite forgetting my dignified resolutions, "do tell me about them. Is Josephine taller than I, and is she pretty? They say she sings so beautifully! Does she?" "Where shall I begin?" he said, with a smile. "Such an avalanche of questions overwhelms me. First, as to height; well (thoughtfully), let me consider. It is difficult to judge. Stand up, and let me see how tall you are." I sprang up, in perfectly good faith, and stood erect before him for three full minutes, while, with a critical eye, he surveyed me from head to foot. "I should say," he continued very deliberately, while I resumed my seat, "I should say that there was not the difference of an eighteenth of an inch between you." "Really?" I exclaimed. "Why, isn't that odd! It's very nice, isn't it, for us to be so near alike?" "I did not say you were near alike." "Oh, but in size I mean. I know we don't look alike. Josephine used to be such a thin, dark, old-looking little girl, that I cannot imagine her tall and grown-up." "I think," continued Mr. Rutledge, "that she is still rather slighter than you are; though your additional shade of health and robustness will, I fancy, soon be lost, under the influence of town habits and constant dissipation." "Are they very gay? Does my aunt go a great deal into society?" I asked. "They did in Paris, and I fancy it will be the same in New York. In fact, there is little doubt of it." "I wonder," I said, leaning my cheek on my hand, and looking thoughtfully into the fire--"I do so wonder whether I shall like it." "Ah! my child," he said rather sadly, "you need not waste much wonder upon that; you will like it but too well. Wonder, with a shudder and a prayer, how you will bear the ordeal." He sighed, and pressed his hand for a moment before his eyes; then catching my wistful look, he continued in a lighter tone: "But I do not mean to frighten you; people, you know, are very apt to preach against what they are tired of, and inveigh against the world after they have 'been there,' and have seen its best and its worst, and tasted eagerly of both; and have spent years in its service, and are only disgusted when they find that it will yield them no more. They have no right to discourage you young things, just on the threshold, eager and impatient for you don't know what of glory and delight." "Why, yes; I'm sure they have a right to warn us, if they see our danger. I am sure it is their duty."