"I believe that; and I am bound to speak frankly to you. You will think me very cold-hearted, very unwomanly, very selfish, when I have spoken; but it is better that you should think of me as I really am. Let me first assure you that I truly value your friendship, and that I shall be heartily sorry if I cannot retain it. But--but--I am selfish; and my present mode of life is so agreeable to me, that I cannot bring myself to change it. You, who have been your own master always, free to follow your art, free to live your own life without question or hindrance, can scarcely imagine what a precious thing liberty is to any one who has suffered a long slavery. I am not going to tell you any piteous story of my past life; it has been what people call a very fortunate and favoured existence. But until I was thirty years of age I never knew what it was to be my own mistress. Up to my eighteenth birthday I was subject to the discipline of a convent. Very gentle, very wise, that discipline was; but every book I read, every letter I wrote, every country ramble or summer holiday, every garment I wore, was regulated and arranged for me by others. I left my convent-school pining for freedom, and found myself subject to the guardianship of a very strict father and an uncompromising elder sister. In a twelvemonth a visitor came; there was a little private discussion. I was summoned to my father's study one summer morning, and was told that my fate had been arranged for me; and that I had nothing to do but to thank Providence for my good fortune. Six weeks afterwards I married a man old enough to be my father, and began a new slavery. I had the best and kindest of masters, and my bondage ought not to have been very irksome to me; but it was bondage, and I thirsted for liberty. I ventured to hope that I did my duty. My husband thanked and blessed me on his death-bed, in words whose memory is very tender and precious to me. Since his death I have been free; and I have lived my own life. A very simple life, as you know; but, oh, so delicious to me in its untrammelled ease. I read what books I like; I keep what hours I like; I choose my own friends; I abandon myself to every caprice of the moment. If I want to waste my time, I waste it, and there is no one to complain. If I want to throw away money, I throw it away with open hands, and there is no one to show me a long list of items in his banker's pass-book. If I were seized to-night with a fancy for starting off to Naples, or Cairo, or Constantinople, or the Caucasus, I should tell my maid to pack a portmanteau, and be off by the first train to-morrow morning. But a woman with a husband must employ the diplomacy of a Metternich to obtain a trip to Brighton. Many men have asked me to abandon this precious freedom; but I have never been so candid as I am with you to-day. I know you must despise me for my selfishness; but I hope you will try to forgive me. Accept me, if you can, for what I am worth, and