“Let her have her proud dark eyes, And her petulant, quick replies; Let her sweep her dazzling hand, With its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hair, With the old imperious air.” TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. “So Charles Huyton is really going to marry Miss Dora Barham,” said Mr. Ufford to the party at the Vicarage. “I wonder whether she is satisfied now.” “How did you hear that?” was Hilary’s reply. “Oh! I had a letter from Huyton this morning, announcing his good fortune; hoping my poor brother would not take it amiss that he had succeeded where George had failed. I own I am more surprised, however, at Huyton’s proposal than at the young lady’s answer.” “You have not heard any thing more from Italy, I suppose?” inquired Hilary, to whom the other subject was distasteful. “I heard this morning that Lord and Lady Rupert, that is Dunsmore’s sister-in-law and her husband, have left Florence, and must now be at Naples with my brother.” “I am glad of that,” said Gwyneth, eagerly, “it will be a relief to our mind to know he has some one with him; and you like Lady Rupert, I think.” “Yes, I do not feel it so necessary to start immediately, and as George was so very anxious to hear that his projects are put _en train_, perhaps it would be better to make some definite arrangements regarding the church and school, at least before I go.” Accordingly papers were produced, plans and estimates looked over, calculations made, and statistics gone into. In the midst of all, while Gwyneth was busy noting down for Mr. Ufford some important calculations, and Hilary was explaining to her father the plan ultimately decided on, Gwyneth suddenly observed, “I wonder Dora is going to marry before Isabel; I am so surprised that she should remain so long single. What do you suppose is the reason?” “I really do not think such things are worth speculating about,” observed Mrs. Hepburn, who particularly wished to avoid the subject. “Miss Barham’s position is peculiar,” said Mr. Ufford, “and so is her character. She is too proud to marry a mean man; too rich to marry a poor one; too great for a humble man; too clever for a foolish one; too independent for a mercenary man; and too good for a bad one.” “Well, that only proves that she must have a wise, clever, rich, and noble husband,” said Gwyneth, laughing a little; “and I suppose with so many claims, aided by the addition of grace and beauty, the probability that she might meet such a one is not very small.” “Perhaps! but then, this wise, good, clever, rich noble man may not perhaps submit to be governed by his wife; and I have a notion that Miss Barham has been too long accustomed to be her own mistress, to like to give up the privilege, or to be at all ready to lay down her scepter.” “Oh, you do not do her justice!” cried Gwyneth; “besides, any woman who loved, would resign all her prerogatives readily to one who deserved them.”