“To have the conversation of her uncle’s friend, of an educated man, of a man so much older than herself! Of course, dear sir! Would not a mother wish every advantage for her child? and whom could I trust, if not you, who have ever been such a friend to me and mine?” asks Mrs. Prior, wiping her dry eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, as she stands by my fire, my monthly bills in hand,--written in her neat old-fashioned writing, and calculated with that prodigal liberality which she always exercised in compiling the little accounts between us. “Why, bless me!” says my cousin, little Mrs. Skinner, coming to see me once when I was unwell, and examining one of the just-mentioned documents,--“bless me! Charles, you consume more tea than all my family, though we are seven in the parlour, and as much sugar and butter,--well, it’s no wonder you are bilious!” “But then, my dear, I like my tea so _very_ strong,” says I; “and you take yours uncommonly mild. I have remarked it at your parties.” “It’s a shame that a man should be robbed so,” cried Mrs. S. “How kind it is of you to cry thieves, Flora!” I reply. “It’s my duty, Charles!” exclaims my cousin. “And I should like to know who that great, tall, gawky red-haired girl in the passage is!” Ah me! the name of the only woman who ever had possession of this heart was not Elizabeth; though I own I did think at one time that my little schemer of a landlady would not have objected if I had proposed to make Miss Prior Mrs. Batchelor. And it is not only the poor and needy who have this mania, but the rich, too. In the very highest circles, as I am informed by the best authorities, this match-making goes on. Ah woman--woman!--ah wedded wife!--ah fond mother of fair daughters! how strange thy passion is to add to thy titles that of mother-in-law! I am told, when you have got the title, it is often but a bitterness and a disappointment. Very likely the son-in-law is rude to you, the coarse, ungrateful brute! and very possibly the daughter rebels, the thankless serpent! And yet you will go on scheming: and having met only with disappointment from Louisa and her husband, you will try and get one for Jemima, and Maria, and down even to little Toddles coming out of the nursery in her red shoes! When you see her with little Tommy, your neighbour’s child, fighting over the same Noah’s ark, or clambering on the same rocking-horse, I make no doubt, in your fond silly head, you are thinking, “Will those little people meet some twenty years hence?” And you give Tommy a very large piece of cake, and have a fine present for him on the Christmas tree--you know you do, though he is but a rude, noisy child, and has already beaten Toddles, and taken her doll away from her, and made her cry. I remember, when I myself was suffering from the conduct of a young woman in--in a capital which is distinguished by a viceregal court--and from _her_ heartlessness, as well as that of her relative, who I once thought would be _my_