“Margaret your aunt, dear Aubrey? Darling Margaret is not quite eighteen; so how could that be?” said Miss Leslie; “and do you mean that _this_ is what you were thinking of? Oh, I wondered what dear Jean, with her own clever head, wanted Aubrey for--Jean, who can manage everything. But how can you tell whether you will love her, dear Aubrey? You cannot always love where you wish to; and I never would give my consent, never for a moment, to a match which was not--” “What nonsense is she talking?” said Mrs. Bellingham. She had gone to get Margaret’s lace to exhibit, and this was why Grace had found the occasion to address Aubrey at such length, “a match which was not--something or other; I am sure, Aubrey, you will fall in love, as everybody does before they marry. I suppose you don’t want to shut up little Margaret in a prison with you and me, Grace, and keep her money, that her husband might not get the use of it? That would be just like you old maids. But I mean Margaret to have a good husband, and live a happy life.” “Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with tears, “_I_ keep dear Margaret unmarried, or want her money! She shall have all I have when I die; and as for being an old maid--” This was a very unkind cut indeed, and Miss Leslie was unable to resist the impulse to cry. Her tears were not so interesting as Margaret’s, for her nose became red, and her short-sighted eyes muddy. “I am sure I have not done anything to deserve this,” she said, and sobbed; while Jean told her not to be so silly, and, without paying any more attention, held up the point de Venise, which had belonged to Margaret’s mother, in her plump hands. “Look at that, Aubrey! If all goes well, you may have a wife with _that_ upon her wedding-dress. Dear me, I think I would almost marry myself to have it. Is it not lovely? But Margaret will not care a bit; no one does at her age. She would think a bit of common Valenciennes from a shop just as pretty, or perhaps, Lord knows, imitation would please her. I had a piece myself in my trousseau not half so good as that, nor half so much of it, but still _lace_, you know, real lace; and I let it lie about, and wore net ruffs and things. Even I! so you may fancy what Margaret will do. But if it was her mother’s (and Bell swears it was), she has a right to it,” Mrs. Bellingham said, with integrity beyond praise.