But the mischief was done. All my old daydreams of wealth and ambition waked to life again, and I began to indulge them more and more. My conscience did not let me fall into my old courses without warning me, it is true; but I began to disregard its teachings, and to repine at the strict manner in which I had been brought up. I had grown very handsome since my illness, and I was quite aware of the fact—as what girl is not? And when I was away from my mother's side and in my aunt's drawing-room, I received many flourishing compliments, such as were then in fashion, from the gallants who visited her. I soon began to compare my good Andrew with these fine gentlemen, not at all to his advantage, and I wished, if it were my fate to marry him, that he had a more genteel figure, and knew better how to set himself off. My aunt and uncle did not scruple to say before me that it was a shame I should so sacrificed—sent down to the country to be brought up by a set of Puritans, and married to another, without any chance to raise myself by a good match, as I might easily do. "'Tis a poor thing for Andrew, too," I heard my uncle say one day; "he ought to marry some rich merchant's daughter, and renew his estate." "Why do you not tell him so?" asked my aunt. "There is Mrs. Mary Bakewell, who would jump at the chance of making herself a lady with her thousands. Truly, she is plain enough, and something the elder, but she is a good creature after all. Why not propose it to him?" "I did," replied my uncle, laughing; "and you should have seen him. He treated me to a real Cornish thunder-gust." "Why, what did he say?" asked my aunt, while I listened with all my ears, as we say. "He said he would rather travel the country with an ass and panniers, selling sand to the old wives, than sell his manhood for a fortune. I said the lady was a good lady, and well nurtured, and he answered: "'So much the worse,' and then added, 'You mean kindly, I dare say, and I thank you, but I am old-fashioned enough to desire to love my wife.'" "He is a rustic, without doubt," returned my lady, with a little touch of sarcasm in her voice. "I think you may as well let matters stand as they are, Charles. You will gain nothing by meddling, and 'tis but a thankless office, educating of other people's children." "I believe you may be right," said my uncle, "and yet I confess I should like to keep the girl." My aunt made no reply, and the conversation was dropped. I must say I looked on Andrew with a good deal more favor after this. It was something to have a servant (that was the fine phrase at that time) who had refused a great match for my sake.