“Some think that all men are superior to all women,” said she, rocking the baby to and fro, “but I can’t subscribe to that opinion. I think we have our rights and our feelings as well as our duties; and our rights and our feelings have some little claim to attention. When a man makes invidious remarks—” “Or a woman either,” said I, laughing a little. “—Which are felt to be meant for personal application,” pursued she, “one’s spirit rises.” “Certainly, it is best to speak out,” said I, “or else be silent.” “Oh, let them speak out! If it’s in them, I’d rather it came out of them. I detest your innuendoes!” “However,” said I, “we can never make the crooked tree straight. We must take people as we find them.” “Or _leave_ them!” said she. Then, suddenly pausing, she pressed me, quite in an altered tone, to take a little more wine. “You have scarcely tasted it—perhaps you prefer some other sort.” “Oh no, thank you. The fact is, I have so long been a water-drinker, that even a little sip makes my mouth feel all on fire.” “Ah! then that can’t be pleasant, I’m sure,” said she, cordially. “I won’t press you to have any more. I only wish I knew what you _would_ like.” “I like looking at you and your baby,” said I, smiling. “Do you think him like me?” “Yes.” “Ah! you said that, I fear, to please me. I own I laid myself out for it. But now, tell me, Mrs. Cheerlove, don’t you think that we have pleasing things said rather too often to us before marriage, and too seldom afterwards?” “Yes, I think that is sometimes the case.” “Oh, and how it depresses one, not to know if you please!—nay, to be pretty sure you don’t! I’m sure, I could do anything, almost, to give satisfaction—take down a bed, lift a box!—” “You would be like the French crossing the Alps when the trumpet sounded.” “Just so; I lose all sense of fatigue and crossness.” “Can’t you hear a _mental_ trumpet?” “What?” “Something _within_, that shall cheer you along your path.” “Ah! I fear I can’t.” And the poor little woman, gushing into grief, told me, the acquaintance of an hour, such a tale of woe, that my tears flowed with hers. She was comforted by my sympathy, and said, clasping her hands— “Oh that I could see my path clear!” “I think you will,” said I, though my hope was not very sanguine. “Sometimes I think I’ll write to mamma. I sit down and write her such long letters, and after all, don’t send them.” “Excellent!” said I. She looked surprised. “Your plan is excellent,” I pursued. “By pouring out your griefs to your dearest and earliest friend, you relieve your own mind; and, by not sending your letter, you give no pain to hers.” “But it is merely from irresolution,” said she. “Never mind what it is from. The plan is excellent. Continue to write to her—write often—pour out your whole heart—and then put the letter carefully away till the next day; enjoy the comfort of finding what a strong case you made out—and, having done so, burn it!”