“Neither the one nor the other has ever approached our poor household, honored Madam; and never shall, while Barbara Brande holds authority over it.” “You speak with great assurance, young woman. Know that it is not _always_ in human power to ward off those heaviest of human ills.” “I speak, dear Madam, with a faith in the Divine protection, as far from presumption, on the one hand, as it is from doubt, on the other. The Lord prospers faithful endeavor. It is to ward off temptation from them, that I choose to watch over my brothers. There is no human guardian like an elder sister, excepting, only, a mother.” “A mother,” repeated Lady Montressor, sadly and thoughtfully, recurring, perhaps, to the fine London belle, who had shuffled off her maternal cares and responsibilities upon a worthless French nurse and an unprincipled French governess; and whose dereliction from duty had been the origin of all her daughter’s calamities. “I lost _mine_ at a very early age, yet, ever since, have I been the mother of my young brothers; and if ever I grow impatient of their boyish ways, I have only to remember they are my dear mother’s orphan children, to bear with them cheerfully. The calling that I have chosen, for their sakes as well as my own, is not less befitting a woman than that of the stage, the counter, the bar, or any of the hundred ways by which poor women earn their bread, or support their families. That it requires more courage and firmness, surely does not render it more unfit for woman: no woman will say that.” “No, no; it surely does not.” “I would rather,” said Barbara, “work a ship through the fiercest tempest that ever a ship _survived_, than stand before the footlights of a stage, face a mixed audience, and act out a part in a play, during a whole evening—as I find even cultivated women sometimes do in this city of yours. Why, I hear the old sea-captains, down at the Ocean House, criticising their personal points. My chosen life may be unfeminine, but it will not expose me to indignities,” said Barbara. “I have no more to say. We will rest the argument,” said Lady Montressor. Barbara arose to take leave. “Stay, Miss Brande, if you please. I did not call you back for a fruitless talk. I understood you to say that your vessel would be your future home?” “Yes, Madam.” “Will it be your _only_ one? Forgive the question, and answer it frankly as it is asked.” “It will.” “Then, Miss Brande, permit me—I know how deep the attachment one feels to her native home; I know how strong yours must be to the Headland. Myself and maid will take up but little room in that large house; therefore, when you return from your voyage, come there as heretofore; your two old servants will still be there to serve you; come with your brothers, and make it your home as before.”