Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp pang. “Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event, not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish now to use these days in making you as conversant with the idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of misunderstanding and sorrow. There is something dreadful in the discovery of unsuspected faults, _after_ marriage—and something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart to adjust itself to the circumstances—efforts that in one case out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known before marriage, the man or the woman may consider well whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced. I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring for the servants to come in to prayers. Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—upon account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the evening devotions.